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January to June, 1892. 

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Vol. III. 



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(Illustrations by SIDNEY PAGET.) 

VII. — The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle ., 73 

VIII.— The Adventure of the Speckled Band 142 

IX.— The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb 276 

X.— The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor 386 

XL— The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet 511 

XII.— The Adventure of the Copper Beeches 613 

AFTER THE CRIME. From the French of Constant Gu£roult 126 

(Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE.) 

BEAUTY IN NATURE. By Sir John Lubbock, Bart., M.P. 
(Illustrations by W. H. J. Boot, R.B.A.) 

I.— Introduction 158 

II.— Woods and Fields 289 

III. — Rivers and Lakes 400 

IV. — Mountains 504 

BLACK KNIGHT, THE • Being an Account of an Exciting Game of Chess. By Raymund Allen... 331 
(Illustrations by A. Pearse.) 

BLACKIE, PROFESSOR. (See " Illustrated Interviews") 225 

BRIDE OF FELIX ARMSTRONG, THE. By J. Harwood Panting 571 

(Illustrations by W. S. STACEY.) 

BUDIAK'S SACRIFICE ; A Story for Children. A Hungarian Legend ... 425 

(Illustrations by H. R. MILLAR.) 

BURNAND, MR. F. C. (See " Illustrated Interviews ") 339 

CATISSOU. From the French of Jules Clari?:tie t ... 48 

(Illustrations by Gordon Browne, R.B.A.) 


(IlluUrattons from Photographs.) 

CLOUDS WITH SILVER LININGS : A Comedy in One Act. Adapted from the French of 

Madame de Girardin, by James Mortimer ... 258 

(Illustrations by H. R. Millar.) 


(Illustrations by A. Pearse.) 

CORNET PLAYER, THE. From the Spanish of Pedro A. de Alarcon 18 

(Illustrations by Paul Hardy.) 

CURATES TEMPTATION, THE. By Maurice Saxon 296 

(Illustrations by G. HlLLYARD SwiNSTEAD.) 

DEAF AND DUMB, HOW EDUCATED. By Edward Salmon 247 

(Illustrations by JOHN GuLICH, and from Photographs.) 


(Illustrations by J. A. SHEPHERD.) 


(Illustrations by Hal Ludlow.) 

DRAK THE FAIRY : A Story for Children. From the French of Emile SOUVESTRE 92 

(Illustrations by H. R. Millar.) , r 





( Written and Illustrated by F. G. KlTTON.) 

HAGGARD, RIDER. (See " Illustrated Interviews •■) 3 

HERALD OF THE DAWN, THE. By J. R. Werner 33 

(Illustrations by A- Pearse ; and Portraits from Photographs.) 

HIS CHANCE AT LAST. By Harry How 190 

(Illustrations by Hal LUDLOW.) 


(Illustrations by JOHN GuLICH ; and from Photographs.) 

HOW A SCULPTOR WORKS. By Alfred T. Story , 577 

(Illustrations by J. Fr£nzeny ; and from Photographs by P. Kummer.) 


VII.— Mr. H. Rider Haggard 3 

(Illustrations by W. Dewar and R. Jones ; and from Photographs by Messrs. ELLIOTT & Fry.) 
VIII.— Sir Morell Mackenzie 115 

(Illustrations by Paul Hardy ; and from Photographs by Messrs. Elliott & Fry.) 
IX.— Professor Blackie , 225 

(Illustrations from Photographs by Messrs. ELLIOTT & FRY.) 
X.— Mr. F. C. Burnand 339 

(Illustrations from Drawings by John Leech, John Tenniel, Fred Walker ; and from 

Photographs by Messrs. ELLIOTT & FRY and others.) 
XL— Lord Wolseley ; 443 

(Illustrations from Drawings by W. B. Wollen, R.I. ; and from Photographs by Messrs. 

Elliott & Fry.) 
XII. — Madame Adelina Patti , 563 

(Illustrations from Photographs by Elliott & Fry, Walery, and others.) 


(Illustrations from Photographs by OTTOMAR ANSCHUTZ and others.) 

IN THE INTERESTS OF SCIENCE: The Story of a Burglary From the German ... 462 
(Illustrations by PAUL HARDY.) 

IN THE MIDST OF THE SEA From the Italian of the Countess Bice de Benvenuti ... 219 
(Illustrations by PAUL Hardy.) 

"IS IT FOR EVER?" (Song) 86 

IACK MIDDLETON'S MOTHER. By C. S. Cheltnam , 57 

(Illustrations by G. HlLLYARD SWINSTEAD.) 

LADY FLORRY'S GEMS. By George Manville Fenn 369 

(Illustrations by Paul Hardy.) 

LEADENHALL MARKET. IN. By Arthur Morrison .. ... 361 

(Illustrations by J. A. Shepherd.) 

LOST LEGION, THE. By Rudyard Kipling ... ... 476 

(Illustrations by A. PEARSE.) 

MACKENZIE, SIR MORELL. (See " Illustrated Interviews ") ... 115 


(Illustrations from Drawings by R* J ONES, and from Photographs by J. Mack, Coleraine — 
and others.) 

MAY QUEENS. By Rev. W. D allow, M.R. S.A.I ... 484 

(Illustrations from Photographs.) 

MR. JONES • A PART OF HIS LIFE, AND OF MINE. By Henry W. Lucy ("Toby, M.P.") 500 
(Illustrations by JEAN DE PALiOLOGUE.) 

MONKEY SOCIETY. By One of its Ornaments 304 

(Illustrations by J. A. SHEPHERD.) 

MY NEIGHBOUR'S DOGS. By Arthur Morrison ... ... 135 

(Illustrations by J. A. SHEPHERD.) 

MYSTERY OF THE RUE DU POT-DE-FER, THE : A True Story. Told from the Letters 

of Mademoiselle AissE. By F. Bayford Harrison .. .. 351 

(Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE, R.B.A.) 


(Written and Illustrated by F. G. KlTTON.) 





{Illustrations by J. A. SHEPHERD.) 

PATTI, MADAME ADELINA. {Sa " Illustrated Interviews m ) 


Besant, Walter 

Blumenthal, Jacques 

Brough, Miss Fanny 

Brough, Lionel 

Burnand, F. C 

Daudet, Alphonse 

Davies, Madame Mary 

Evans, Lord Mayor 

Fenn, G. Manville 

Frith, W. P., R.A 

Goddard, Madame Arabella.. 

Gounod, Charles 

Hanbury, Miss Lily 

Hannen, Lord Justice 

Italy, The King of 

Italy, The Queen of 

Leader, B. W., A.R.A 

Linton, Sir James 

Lucy, Henry W. ("Toby, M.P. 





Mathers, Miss Helen 
Muddock, J. E., F.R.G.S. ... 

Parkes, Sir Henry 

Penley, W. S 

Playfair, Sir Lyon 

Reeves, Sims 

Rochefort, Henri 

Roze, Marie 

Santley, Charles 

Sarasate, Senor 

Scott, Clement 

Stone, Marcus, R.A 

Tadema, L. Alma-, R.A. 
Teck, Princess Victoria of 

Terry, Edward 

Trevelyan, Sir George, Bart., 

Web^, Captain 

Wemyss, The Earl of 
Yates, Edmund 


PRINCE'S CRIME, THE. By J. E. Muddock, F.R.G.S 

{Illustrations by A. PEARSE.) 

PRINCE WITH THE HAND OF GOLD, THE : A Story for Children. 
{Illustrations by H. R. MILLAR.) 


Boots and Shoes of all Ages 

Candid Critic, A 

Cat-as-trophy, A 

Curiosities of a Century 

Doll and the Raven, The 

End of War, The. By J. F. Sullivan 

Found in the Snow 

Hair and Head Curiosities 

Hawk Killed by Train 

Impossibility. By J. F. Sullivan 

London Street Cries 

Lord Palmerston, Two Views of 

" Man with the Dogs," The 


Moozeby. By J. F. Sullivan 

More of Moozeby. By J. F. Sullivan 


Mustard Plaster 

Pal's Puzzles 


"Retaliator, The." By J. F. Sullivan 

Road Travelling of the Past 

Rocking-Stone, A 

Silver-Plated. By W. L. Alden 

Sir Ogre's Estate 

Snake Story, A 

Snow Lady, A 

Tale of a Four-Wheeler, A 


Vestry Meeting, A 

From the Servian. 






















108, 216, 328,440, 552,656 

















ROMANCE OF A TELEGRAPH WIRE, THE: A Story for Children. From the German 

of Karl von Schlozer 202 

{Illustrations by H. R. MILLAR.) 


{Illustrations by Paul Hardy.) 

SILVER PENNY, THE : A Story for Children. From the Hungarian.. 
{Illustrations by H. R. MILLAR.) 

Digitized by IjOOglC 

L\ 1 1 I U I I I '_' I I 







14 Is it for Ever? " Words by G. A. Binnie ; Music by Franco Leoni 86 

{Illustrations by H. Fairfax Muckley.) 

" Wilt Thou Understand ? " Music by Jacques Blumenthal 603 

{Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE, R.B.A.) 

STREET MUSICIANS. By Gilbert Guerdon 64 

{Illustrations by FRANK FELLER.) 


{Illustrations by A. PEARSE.) 


( Written and Illustrated by WARRINGTON HOGG.) 


the Russian 313 

{Illustrations by H. R. MILLAR.) 

TWO MARRIAGE EVES. By Richard Dowling ... 406 

{Illustrations by Jean DE Pal^OLOGUE.) 


{Illustrations by J OH N GuLICH, and from Photographs.) 


WOLSELEY, LORD. {See " Illustrated Interviews ") ... .„ 443 

ZODOMIRSKY'S DUEL. From the French of Alexandre Dumas 555 

{Illustrations by PAUL Hardy.) 

vjfwix r.K.:T:trr,5i. rnr\Trn?. 77, tilcrim ~tt;eet. iuocatf i:il:,, B.C. 

:eti by W 


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Original from 

Illustrated Interviews. 


Frsm a Photo. Ay] 


[FJiioti & Fry. 

r ^^ 

ITCHINGHAM is a distinctly 
cosy Norfolk village, small 
and picturesque. Ditching- 
ham House is a typical Nor- 
folk home. It stands in the 
midst of a perfect shelter 
provided by the surrounding elms and 
beeches, for the winds which come across 
from i he glorious valley of the Waveney, 
and over the Hat li 1 1 ill-, or the Kail's 
Vineyard, as it was once called — cme of the 
prettiest hillsides in this part of Norfolk — 
are keen and cutting, and blow cold o 1 
nights. Here Mr. Rider Haggard — bar- 
rister, justice of the peace, farmer and 
novelist— lives. It is no easy matter to 
realise that he who wanders about a com- 
pact little farm of a hundred and fifty 
acres, and inquires of the bailiff as he 
critically looks into a pig pen — u Which of 
these pigs are you going to kill?" — or 
singles out a grand turkey with a view to 
its successful appearance on the Christmas 
dinner table, is the brilliant writer of such 
fascinating works as " King Solomon's 
Mines/ 1 i! Jess/ 1 "Colonel Quaritch/' " Cleo- 
patra/' u Eric Brighteyes/' and the creator 

Digitized by GoOglC 

of that immortal woman "She." There is 
positively little about Mr, Haggard — whom, 
perhaps, one might describe as a country 
gentleman by profession and a novelist by 
accident — suggestive of the literary man. 
Literature ! We talked of gardening and 
flowers over the dinner table ; learnt how he 
had brought many of the ferns in his fern- 
house three thousand miles — carrying them 
on mules overland and in canoes clown the 
rivers— from tropical Mexico. Some of 
these ferns are curious, by the way. There 
is one the leaves of which are five or six feet 
long, and a curious spotted species which 
grows on the ledges of rocks, in shape re- 
sembling a diminutive cart-wheel, He is 
passionately fond of gardening. Literature 
at the dinner table ! It is interesting to 
hear him relate the most paying agricul- 
tural feat he ever accomplished, when, 
while on a visit to some property in South 
Africa, together with the assistance of his 
partner and a couple of Zulu Kaffirs and 
a mowing machine, he cut and sold hay 
to the value of nearly ^300 in little more 
than a fortnight. Dinner over, we go into 
the drawing-room and play ■* Proverbs," 



/■Vnm a i'iufio- by] 


and munch great Ribston pippins picked 
from the tree only an hour ago. 

In appearance Mr. Haggard looks just 
his age — thirty-five. He is" tall, somewhat 
slim, and wears a fair moustache. His 
kindness makes one happy, his modesty is 
impressive to a degree. He tells you nothing 
but what is worth 
remembering ; 
his life has been 
one long chapter 
of adventure, and 
every nook and 
corner of the 
house, wherever 
you turn, has 
some reminder of 
a career which 
has been in many 
ways remarkable, 
I spent part of 
the evening in 
going from room 
to room and 
noting these. The 
entrance-hall and 
staircases are 
crowded with in- 
teresting aad sug- 
gestive memen- 
toes. On the 
walls are Ara- 
bian shields and 

swords, lengthy 
spears, and ugly 
— though highly 
decorative — 
knives, many 
from various 
battlefields, an- 
cient Egyptian 
bows and throw- 
ing- sticks, and 
here is an ancient 
cedar rod believed 
to be similar to 
the one which 
Moses cast before 
Pharaoh. On a 
ledge is a row of 
fine ostrich eggs, 
and just by the 
entrance to an 
ante - tooth are 
two quaint chairs 
witli footstools 
combined, made 
of ebony, with- 
out nails, and in- 
laid with ivory*' These came from the 
East Coast of Africa. A lamp is sup- 
ported on a wooden pedestal. It is 
made of the Royal red wood of Ziilu- 
land* Only kings and princes were allowed 
to possess it ; for a commoner to carry it 
meant death- So precious was it deemed 

iEUioti «t F r^ 



iFlliail * Frv. 



Z'rtWH a rJkuW. ft# J&tffoit $ try. 

net. It is exquisitely carved, and 
was the property of Lady Smith, who 
inherited it in her youth, and died at 
the age of a hundred and four. It is 
said to contain forty secret drawers, 
a scare of which yet remain to bo 
discovered. The billiard-room is ex- 
ceptionally interesting. An oil-paint- 
ing of Mrs. Haggard, by Kerr, hangs 
here, and on one side of the room 
are the original drawings by Greif- 
fenhagen for an, as yet, unpublished 
edition of the novelist's l * World's 
Desired Greiffenhagens work is 
marvellously real. His '* She " pic- 
tures, which hang downstairs, are 
exceptionally striking black-and- 
whites. In a niche of the billiard-room 
— somewhat hidden from view — ie a 
desk of Charles Dickens. It was bought at 
the Gad's Hill sale. Close by is a little 
cabinet. The glass door is opened, and 
from a tiny silver Icelandic Conn nun inn 
cup a number of rings are put into my 
open hand. One of the most striking of 
these is a gold band, thousands of years 
old, with hieroglyphics engraved upon it 
signifying M Haggard " (as an Egyptian 
might have written it) " the Scribe makes 
an offering to the God of Dawn-" Another 
^old ring h from the mummy of Queen 
Taia, the feminine Henry VIII. of Egypt, 
and one of the most fascinating and beauti- 
ful women that ever lived. Its inscription 

that it was cut 
up in small 
pieces and be- 
stowed u pf j n dis- 
tinguished war- 
rior* — a sort of 
Zulu Victoria 

The landings 
are lined with 
many portraits 
cii Norfolk 
worthies ; the 
walls are de- 
corated with Af- 
rican horns. 
This huge bull's 
head belonged 
to an animal 
shot by Mr. 
Fred Jackson, 
the explorer. 
Here stands a 
quaint old cabi- 

From a Vltoio, by] 




reads/' AnkBes, 
BesAnk 1 ' ("the 
living Bes, lies 
the living' 1 ). It 
has been mend- 
ed, Mr, Hag- 
gard wore it for 
a year, but un- 
fortunately he 
broke it whilst 
getting out of 
a cab. Oueen 
Taia must have 
worn it all her 
life, for it shows 
signs of con- 
stant use. Then 
Mr* Haggard 
takes from hi* 
finger a signet 
ring he always 
weans It was 
found at Deir- 
el-Baliari. Its 
red stone is be- 
lieved to chro- 
nicle tlie por- 
trait of Raineses 
the Great, the 
Pharaoh of the 
with whose cof- 
fin it was dis* 

Here is a 
Gnostic ring in mediaeval lead setting, and 
yet another — a golden circlet — which will 
always be associated with his career. It is 
the scarab that figures in " She. TT It is a 
heavy ring, and bears the words, (( Suten 
se Ra " (" Royal Son of the Sun T1 ). 

A grand piece of oak 
carving, dated 1664, sur- 
rounds the fireplace in 
the dining- room . Here 
is an admirable portrait of 
the novelist by John Pet- 
tie, R.A« On either side 
of the window are paint- 
ings of two of the Hamil- 
tons — ancestors of Mrs, 
Haggard — who were loyal 
to their King, Charles II. 
A story is told of the faithful Cavalier who 
hangs in the dining-room. No stauncheT 
Royalist breathed, and he rode from Lon- 
don to Norwich in great glee with the news 
of the Restoration. Unfortunately, he got 
into a meeting of Roundheads, but so full 

fhjrti a Photo, bj/] 


[EUW rf JVp. 

of joy was he 
that he shouted 
the n^ws to 
them as loudly 
as he could. 
They nearly 
killed him for 
his kindness. A 
Sir Joshua Rey- 
nolds hangs here 
— the portrait of 
a lady arid her 
child. She was 
the wife of an 
officer who was 
called away to 
the French wars. 
During his ab- 
sence a little 
one was born, 
and the doting 
mother and lov- 
ing wife, ex- 
pecting hi in to 
return soon, had 
this picture 
painted, fur him. 
But he never 
came back again, 
The lady could 
not afford to 
pay for it, and 
the canvas re- 
mained in Sir 
Joshua's studio 

for some time, until finally bought at his 
auction bv T)v Hamilton, of Lynn, 

The drawing-room is a delightfully cosy 
apartment, with its white enamelled chim- 
ney-piece and its inviting cushioned corners. 
Knick-knacks in china till the recesses ; 



more curios from distant climes, amongst 
which is a little glass photo of a small 
child in a plaid frock— an early portrait of 
Rider Haggard. Mexican combs, exquisite 
embroidery and fans, are picturesquely 
scattered about, and freshly plucked flowers 


bu, >U 


fill the vases. 
Near the window 
—looking out on 
a stretch of lawn 
strewn with the 
fallen leaves from 
the trees — on an 
easel T is a picture 
of Mr, Haggard's 
mother, a photo- 
graph of Barring- 
ton Foote, and a 
charming oil 
colour by Leon 
Little — " Dawn 
on the Thames." 
The study is a 
perfect treasure- 
house of curios. 
An important 
resident of the 
working room is 
Jack, a tame rat, 
who is liberally 
s u p p 1 i e d with 
nuts* which lie readily cracks* Just by the 
fireplace is the gun cupboard , designed by 
its owner* The drawer contains a thousand 
cartridges. A number of fishing-rods also 
find a convenient corner in it. It is impos- 
sible to chronicle every curio— the Greek 
vases and ancient pottery, strings of heath 
from the necks of mummies, and Zulu 
battle-axes and assegais* A marvellous 

brum a l':i:>i-j. by] 



Fro* a Photo, by] 


piece of embroidery Lies on the table ; it is 
of Mexican workmanship, some two hun- 
dred years old, evidently from a priest's 
cope. Here is a bronze jar from the tomb 
of an Etruscan monarch. Over the door 
is a Mexican idol in green jade ; it once 
had eyes and teeth of emeralds — alas ! now 
extracted. It weighs thirty pounds, and 
its possessor, who declares it to be the 

best that ever 
came out of 
Mexico, owns to 
having smug- 
gled it to Eng- 
land wrapped 
up in a dress. 
The tobacco-jar 
is a huge one ; 
the pipes — a 
good score of 
them — are neat- 
ly arranged in 
a rack. 

"These little 
things were 
picked up on 
the battlefield 
of Isandlwana/' 
said Mr. Hag- 
gard, taking a 
small bowl from 
the mantel- 
board. One by 

UNIVERSFTWflflCHIGtfR 6 v,x eam ' 


j-'ruitt a I'iftfo. by) 

incd them— a six 
of eye-glasses 
(probably once 
belonging to an 
officer), a pair of 
nail scissors, a 
farrier's hook, a 
pen. Every one 
of them seemed 
to speak ! 

" Look at this ! M 
cried Mr. Hag- 
gard, almost ex- 
citedly. u I never 
noticed that till 
this moment/* 

It was an 
English revolver - 
cartridge that 


iZltioti & /Y*. 

pence dated 1859, a pair 

had missed fire ! Some poor fel- 
low had pinned his faith to it. 
The little piece of lead I now held 
in my hand probably meant— a 
life lost, 

The shelves are well stocked 
with volumes ; one of them is de- 
voted to holding the buiky covers 
which contain the original MS3. 
of his works. Everyone is marked 
with the time it took to write. A 
small shelf near the window is 
peculiarly interesting- The stores 
of paper volumes it supports are 
all pirated editions of his works 
issued in America No author has 
suffered more than he in tins 
respect. He has even had books 
published under his name in the 
States of which he never wrote a 
line. In the case of H Allan Quar- 
ter main ,J some enterprising A meri- 
cans got hold of a set of uncor- 
rected proof-sheets and published 

And so we passed the evening 
going through the house, and, 
when the morrow came, walked 
through the meadows and newly- 
planted orchards round the farm. 
Now Mr* Haggard appears in an 
easy knickerbocker suit, and car- 
ries a long Zulu stick surmounted 
with a huge knob, which has 
helped him over rough paths for 
many years. The Mexican ferns 
are flourishing, the chrysanthe- 
mum houses loaded with blossoms, 
"Poacher, "a fine young dog, which 
follows in every step of its master, 
bounds up, Poacher has a family history. 

Prvm a rhoio, 


°flffl?ffi$rmOF MICHIGAN 



Its mother was a famous lurcher — a poacher's 
dog— and was known all over the West of 
Norfolk. It was set at Mr. Haggard's 
keeper one night by its master, and there 
was shooting. The dog was captured, and 
its owner was charged with attempted 
murder. The silent prisoner was con- 
demned to be shot after the trial. Mr. 
Haggard begged for the poor creature, won 
her, and her offspring has instinctively 
turned out a faithful animal* 

The fowl* arc running over tiny hillocks, 
and the turkeys 
presence known 
by their own 
peculiar cackle. 
One of the la- 
bouring hands 
here is known 
to his familiars 
as "Young 
Sam." We met 
< l Old Sam/' his 
father — who was 
Mrs. Haggard's 
coachman — just 
now in the lane* 
* l Old Sam ''can- 
not be many 
years off a 
centenarian ; 
l( Young Sam" 
is nearing se- 
venty* Your 
Norfolk folk are 
long-lived. A 
beautiful little 
Alderney calf of 
ten weeks wins 
admiration, and 
I hen wc walk 
through the 
meadows T and 
the good points 
in some grand 

red-polls — the famous Norfolk breed of 
cattle — are discussed. It is as trim a farm 
as any for miles round ; the result of two 
years' labour has worked wonders with the 
land since Mr. Haggard took it*' in hand." 
We cut some roses — still in bloom — wave 
a good-bye to Angela and Dorothy, his two 
little daughters — who are just off for a Tide — 
and enter the house delightfully fresh and 
ready for work after our morning's walk, 
Wc lit our pipes in the study* 
Mr* Haggard was born on June 22, 1856. 

-■:■ ■'.■/:-. 

He comes of a Scandinavian farnily r and 
for some generations his ancestors have been 
Norfolk squires. His father is William M. 
Rider Haggard, J. P., D.L., of Bradenham 
Hall, Norfolk , where the novelist was born. 
His mother had literary powers, and pub- 
lished some volumes of poems and songs. 
Mr. Haggard good-humouredly assures me 
that he was not an interesting infant. He 
passed his early years at Bradenham, then 
went abroad, and returned to England, when 
he entered the Grammar School at Ipswich. 

He was destined 
fur the Foreign 
Office, but in 
1875 was ap- 
pointed secre- 
tary to Sir 
Henrv Bulwer, 
G.C.M.G., at 
Natal, and two 
vears later ful- 
filled a similar 
position to Sir 
T h e o p h i 1 u s 
S hepstoiie, 
K.CH.G., then 
on a special 
mission to the 
Transvaal. He 
was there during 
the whole crisis 
surrounding the 
annexation of 
the Transvaal j 
and — -then a 
young man only 
just out of his 
teens— hoisted 
the English flag 
in the Queen's 
name. A little 
photo of the 
party, as they 
appeared oil 
this memorable 
morning, hangs 
in his room with that of the Union Jack. 

"The real reason/' said Mr, Haggard, 
41 why the Transvaal was annexed was to 
prevent its inhabitants being wiped out of 
the world by Cetewayo. The Transvaal 
forces had been defeated, and Cetewayo had 
massed his regiments to attack it* Sir 
Theophilus Shepstone knew that, unless the 
territory became Queen's land, Cetewayo 
would take it I never saw Cetewayo." 
Then the story of his life begins in real 

ear, niNffifr^FM&HKr he was 


[From a I'haio* h Eliivit & ±'nt*\ 





From ft PAofoprapA 

appointed Master of the High Court there, 
the first in the Transvaal, and probably the 
youngest ever known. As such he was 
guardian of all the orphans, 

" The Boers were very litigious over the 
question of land, and would spend four 
times the value of a plot over a lawsuit. 
They were much in the hands of the lawyers. 
The scale of legal charges was simply wicked. 
A solicitor would open a bill of costs with a 
retaining fee of fifty guineas. When I was 
appointed Master of the Court I made a 
dead stand against this. The first bill 
presented to me was for ^600. I knocked 
off a discount of ^400, There was a tre- 
mendous agitation against me, but my 
superiors upheld me, and in the long run 'I 
triumphed. I used to go on circuit over 
hundreds of miles in an ox waggon. 

w Yes, we often had murder trials. One 
of the most singular that I remember, 
because of the strange behaviour of the 
prisoner, was this : One night I was 
standing on the verandah of Government 
House. I heard a shot. Inquiries were 
made, and it transpired that a private in 
a regiment quartered at Pretoria had opened 
the canvas of his sergeant-major's tent — 
who was just then writing home to Eng- 
land — and shot him. The man then went 

nway with the intention of killing his 
adjutant and colonel. He was arrested > 
brought up for trial, and a plea of insanity 
was put in. The trial ran into the night, 
and the large and crowded court was lit 
with six candles only, which gave it a pecu- 
liarly solemn appearance. The jury adjudged 
the prisoner * Guilty. 7 I rose up and asked 
the man, in the formal words, and with my 
most dignified manner, if he had anything 
to say why sentence of death should not 
be passed upon him. His reply, uttered 
in a most jaunty voice, was, 4 Nothing at 
all, thank you, sir.' There was a question 
about his sanity. At any rate, whilst his 
dead comrade was being given a soldier's 
funeral, and the band was playing 'The 
Dead March in Saul T past the jail, the 
fellow was whistling merry English songs ! 
In the end, his sentence was commuted to 
penal servitude for life, he escaped, and, t>o 
far as I know, was never recaptured, 

" The Zulus arc amongst the most coura- 
geous people in the world — they have no 
fear of death. There was a chief living in 
Transvaal territory. He was a magnificent 
fellow in strength and stature. A magis- 
trate of his district went to collect certain 
taxes. The chief refused to pay, called on 
his tribesmen, who killed the magistrate and 




seven men. The chief was caught, his 
kinsmen were condemned to imprisonment, 
he to death. The morning ol the execution 
arrived, and I went to the jail and saw his 
hands tied behind his back. Through an 
interpreter he was asked whether he had 
anything to say. He cried out loudly : — 

4i * Why all this trouble— why this fuss ? 
I do not fear death. If I am to be killed, 
kill me/ 

11 With these words he broke away, walked 
deliberately across the yard and on to the 
gallows. He examined the noose of twisted 
buffalo hide 1 and took his stand unflinchingly 
over the trap. The executioner was intoxi- 
cated, the High Sheriff was overcome with 
the scent: and had to retire — I myself was 
obliged to push and exhort the executioner 
111 order that he might perform the fearful 
task, and, at last, the brave Zulu fell. The 
whole thing lasted some minutes, but during 
this time the man never winced, nur showed 
the slightest emotion. 

M I held office as Master of the High 
Court for two years, when I resigned. 
The Zulu war broke out in 1879. I was 
in South Afriea then. I knew of the dis- 
aster at Isandlwaiia twenty hours before the 
express reached Pretoria. An old Hottentot 
woman told me, Her words were, * The red- 
coats lay like leaves upon a plain. 1 How 
the news travelled over the plains in the 
time I cannot tell, for I was 200 miles from 
the scene of action. 
When there are hills 
they shout news from 
top to top, but there 
were none here* On 
receipt of this news a 
volunteer corps was 
raised to go to 
Z u 1 u 1 a n d — a 
company of 
mounted gentle- 
men known as 
'The Pretoria 
Horse' — who, 
though even- 
tually much cut 
up, did excellent 
service in the 
Boer war. I was ^^ rf 
elected lieutenant * 
and adjutant of " ir ! % £3 
this corps. mT/lS 

" Just previous &W 
to this I was 
nearly killed. I -/* 
was on a mission -^ 

for the Government to visit a chief in 
a distant mountainous district. I little 
dreamed that there was a plot to murder 
us. My love for moonlight scenery 
saved us. We had the option of two 
roads. I suggested the less frequently used 
one, where we could get a better view 
of the mountains in the moonlight ; we 
took it. On the other path a party of natives 
were lying in ambush for us. In this way 
I believe that w T e escaped death and perhaps 

1( The Pretoria Horse were ready to pro- 
ceed to Zululand, but we were prevented by 
the sudden rising of the Boers, We were 
to have accompanied Colonel Wcatherley's 
horse. They were subsequently destroyed, 
with the exception of six men. Colonel 
Weatherley had two sons out there — the 
elder was my clerk in the High Court, and the 
other, little Rupert, who wai verv weakly, 
was a great favourite of his father. The 
poor little fellow accompanied his father 
every where, and in the fight of Slobane was 
Hssegaied by the Zulus. The Colonel is 
believed to have died fighting over his poor 
boy's body. The other son — -who is still in 
the army — was coming into camp when he 
caught sight of a pretty pony passing his 
way. The saddle was empty. He caught 
it, and not knowing whose it was, rode into 
camp on its back. It had carried his little 
brother out that day. 




a Englishmen were precious just then. 
I was sent out in command of a handful 
of men to watch the Boer camp. We had 
spies there. They would report to me every 
evening, and I sent despatches to Pre- 
toria — about twenty-one miles away — as we 
had relays of horses all along the road, and 
could reach the town in an hour. The head- 
quarters of the Boer camp were near an 
inn where I was stationed with my men. 
One day, having got wind of the reason of 
our presence, the Boers came down on us 
in force, took possession of the inn, and 
threatened to kill us. I had a very smart 
sergeant there, whom I sent into the room 
where they were gathered to keep a watch 
upon their movements. Needless to say he 
knew Dutch. The Boers have a great 
horror of dynamite, and when things began 
to look serious my sergeant saw one of them 
light his pipe and fling the still burning 
match on to the floor. Hurriedly, but with 
the utmost caution, he picked it up, blew it 
out, and threw it away with a fervently 
expressed i Thank Heaven ! ' 

44 This attracted the attention of the 
Boers. 4 Why had he done that — what did 
he mean ? ' 

44 4 Don't you know ? ' the sergeant asked. 

44 4 Know what ? f said the Boers. 

4i 4 Why, the British Government store all 

their dynamite under this place. If I hadn't 

put out that match we should all have been 

blown into ten thousand atoms ! ' 

44 4 Almighty ! ' said the Boers, and five 
minutes afterwards the place was clear. 

44 About this time there was an extra- 
ordinary panic in Pretoria. A Boer rode 
in to say that Cetewayo's 4 impis' were 
within twenty miles of Pretoria, and 
would attack that night. My captain was 
sent out to ascertain the truth of this, 
and I was left in command of the corps. 
Only that morning horses had been served 
out to us. Orders came to saddle up and be 
ready. I marched the men into the yard 
where the horses were, and when we got 
there every man wanted the best horse. It 
was difficult to settle their claims, but I hit 
upon the idea of a scramble. I ordered 
the men to rush in together and each make 
for one. In ten minutes all were suited ; 
but the trouble did not end here. 
44 4 Mount,' " I cried. 

44 The men did so— but only for an instant. 
The next moment the troop burst like a 
bombshell, nearly every horse bolted, and 
many men were thrown off. One poor 
fellow's foot caught in a stirrup and he was 


nearly kicked to death. I do not believe 
that any of those horses had ever been 
saddled before ! The panic grew. In the 
midst of all a thunderstorm raged — the 
rain fell in sheets. Women and children 
were weeping, the men were burying their 
money. It transpired afterwards that the 
whole idea of an attack of Cetewayo was 
the invention of a mad Kaffir. (See 

44 1 returned to England at the end of 
1879 and married in the following year. 
I went back, however, to Africa with my 
wife, in order to look after some property I 
have in the Newcastle district of Natal. On 
our arrival I heard of the Boer rebellion. 
Whilst in Maritzburg my wife and I dined 
with Sir George Colley, the Governor of 
Natal — a party altogether of some twelve 
or fourteen people. It was a night or two 
before Sir George started up country to 
attack the Boers. Within a month the 
majority of those present had been killed, 
and I believe that at this moment Lady 
Colley, Mrs. Haggard, and myself are the 
sole survivors of that dinner party. 

44 1 heard the action at Lang's Neck being 
fought. We went up country, believing 
that Sir George Colley would not attack 
the Boers with the men at his disposal. It 
was a terribly rough journey — we were 
nearly carried away by flooded streams, and 
the roads were cut into a slough by the guns. 
I arrived with my wife at my house, on the 
borders of Newcastle, and the following after- 
noon went out duck shooting. I heard the 
sound of distant heavy firing. I listened 
intently. At that moment the disastrous 
action at Lang's Neck was being fought. 
Then came a period of great and terrible 
trouble — battles fought and battles lost. 
Reinforcements poured in. One Sunday 
afternoon while I was sitting after luncheon 
on the verandah of my house, I thought 
that I heard the sound of guns. My wife 
and servants in the house believed it to be 
distant thunder. I saddled my horse, rode 
into Newcastle, a mile and a half away, and 
on the road called in at the telegraph office. 
The messages were just then passing through 
to England of the fearful defeat at Majuba. 
I rode on into the camp as fast as I could, 
but they had no news there, for troops were 
marching out towards Majuba as though 
nothing had happened. But the people at 
the telegraph office were right ! 

44 The Boers came down and cut our 
communications. They burnt the next 
place to us, and for some weeks we lived in 




a state of anxiety, anticipating an attack at 
any moment. Zulu scouts were out every 
night ; we slept with loaded rifles by out 
sides and six horses always saddled in the 
stables. Sometimes we sat up all night. Ulti- 
mately we were driven into laager by the 
Boers. Then came the news of the sur- 
render of the English Government to the 
Boers, just when thousands of troops were 
advancing to our relief. It was received 
with entire incredulity, I, for one, refused 
to believe it. When the truth became 
known, the most extraordinary scenes oc- 
curred at Newcastle. It was crowded with 
thousands of refugees, natives, loyal Boers, 
and English people driven in from the 
Transvaal* The town went mad. Three or 
four thousand people were huddled together 

" that's false!" isAiu. 

in the market square — drunk, crying, curs- 
ing—and every group ruined. The mem- 
bers of the English Government were burnt 
in effigy, and words were said which I do 
not care to repeat, 

11 1 believe the English only hit three 
men at Majuba— one was killed, the Boers 
,*ay> one badly wounded, and one man 
had his cheek grazed. This latter man thus 
described the action to me some weeks 
afterwards, 'At first,' he said, * we were 

Digitized by G( 

terribly afraid, but as we went up the moun- 
tain and we found that the English did 
not hit us, we gained heart and pushed on. 
They ran away. I sat on the rocks and 
shot them as they ran like bucks. They 
nearly killed me— look here, 1 pointing to 
his scarred cheek, ' but I paid them out 
for it. It was a iter lekker (very nice). 
They tumbled over one another. We 
killed thousands of them/ 

11 * That's false I ' I said, 1 you haven't killed 
a thousand men during the whole war. T 

li His reply was, b Ah, well. You lie and 
I lie, but I say we killed thousands of them. 
Bui I bear no malice. //; fit turf if an 
Englishman touches his hat to me 1 shall 
at knowledge it ! y 

"It was at my house that the convention 
with the Boers was 
signed, I myself was 
so overcome with the 
disgrace of the situa- 
tion, that I aban- 
doned South Africa 
and returned to Eng- 
land. I felt I could 
no longer live there 
as an Englishman — 
in those days Natal 
was no longer a 
country for English- 
men to live in. I 
arrived in the old 
country after being 
nearly shipwrecked. 
By the bye, I have 
been actually ship- 
wrecked. It was 
whilst returning from 

M I determined then 
to go to the bar, and I studied here at 
Ditch ingham. Whilst studying I be- 
gan to write books. My first was a 
historical work, l Cetewayo and his 
White Neighbours. 1 I lost X?° ovcr it- 
Then I tried novel writing. My fir^l 
story was 'Dawn.' It irent the rruinc! 
of several publishers, but nobody would have 
it, so I re-wrote it and made it end up happily 
— the ending of the original was somewhat 
sad. I worked so hard at that book that my 
sight gave way and I had to finish it in a 
darkened room. It was accepted and paid 
fairly well- I made £io out of it as a start, 
but afterwards more. Then came * The 
Witch's Head.' By that time, though 
this novel was something of a success, 
I thought I had had enough — that the game 




was not worth the 
candle. I was called 
to the bar, and prac- 
tised for about a 
year. I had read a 
good deal of talk in 
the papers of boys 1 
books, and I deter- 
mined to write one. 
I did it in my spare 
evenings, chiefly for 
amusement. The 
title of it was 'King 
Solomon's Mines. 1 
It was a big success, 
and remains so, 

though I never had a very high opinion of 
it myself* " 

I have just had put into my hand the 
bone with winch the old Don in the famous 
romance used to write. There is ink on it 
still. Here, too, is the veritable chart itself 
—the original map of those wonderful 
mines* Shall I help to destroy its delight- 
ful romance if I tell how this curious piece 
of linen of three hundred years ago really 
came into existence? A sister-in-law of 
Mr. Haggard's ingeniously executed the 
whole thing, and those fearfully and won- 
derfully made characters were penned by 
her own hand with coloured pigments ! 
Mr. Haggard tells a merry story of a little 
adventure he had one day with this map. 

He was taking it to be bound with the 
MSS., and travelling on the Underground 
Railway. The frontispiece of "King 
Solomon's Mines" is an exact reproduction 
of the original map. An old lady got into 
the same compartment as the novelist, and 
opening a copy of this very work, at once 
became deeply interested in the frontispiece, 
She turned it this way and that way — all 
ways, but was more puzzled than ever. It 
was impossible tor Mr. Haggard to resist the 
t em plat inn. He took the rait thing out of 
his pocket, put it on his knee, and began 
studying it too. It caught the innocent 
old lady's eye* She looked from book to 
author, from copy to original, and was per- 
fectly bewildered. Mr, Haggard got out at 
the next station, and when the train left the 
platform there was the old lady staring at 
him out of the window w T ith indescribable 
amazement still written on her face. 

In connection with u King Solomon's 
Mines T1 he once received a letter from a girls' 
school in America, thanking him most 
gratefully for writing a book 4i without a 
woman in it " I He also received a round 

by C^OOgle 

jMTir "" *#> - 


robin from the members of some great 
firm of electricians in Austria, acquainting 
him with the pleasure that some work of 
his had given them, It bore seven signa- 
tures, each writer of which was of a different 

Then the manuscript volume of "She " 
is taken down from one of the shelves* It 
was written in six weeks, and a fortnight 
out of that time was occupied largely hi 
doing a friend's work — reporting cases in 
the Divorce Court for The Times, To write 
a novel in little more than four weeks is a 
truly remarkable undertaking, the brilliant 
result making it a still greater accomplish- 
ment- Mr. Haggard sat down to write it 
with a very slight idea of the plot, only 
with the great creative character in his 
mind — that of an immortal woman— a type. 
A story which a lady once wrote and told 
him — the story of a woman and a cave — 
helped him in writing 4l Shc/' The original 
sherd of u She '' is over the mantelpiece. 

Soon afterwards he left the bar, finding 
that his reputation as an author was detri- 
mental to his practice there. The success of 
"King Solomon's Mines" and " She/' the 
rush now for his earlier works — compara- 
tively little read — was sufficient inducement 
for him to go on. As one work succeeded 
the other j his reputation was strengthened, 
his genius as a writer of romance impressed 
every book lover, his descriptive powers 
were considered as marvellously real as 
they were in many cases brilliantly im- 
aginative. He is a great traveller. He 
spends months in a country where the scene 
of his work is to be laid. His notes of the 
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scenes, the people, and their manners are 
purely mental. The hardest travelling — 
in search of " scenes " — he ever had in his 
life was in Mexico, He characterises the 
roads in the wilder parts as indescribable, 
the food worse t whilst, in the hot country, 
sleep was most difficult to obtain, owing to 
the constant torment of venomous insects. 
A new work will soon appear, centred 
in these tropical regions. 

Before he wrote " Eric Brighteyes" he 
went to Iceland, He made his way to 
Btrgthorsknoll, the residence of Njal, the 
hero in **The Story of Burnt Njal" — who 
was burnt to death in the house there. The 
irrepressible novelist, with that love of search 
which he possesses, commenced digging in 
the floor of the old hall, and there found 
traces of the burning after eight hundred 
years. He retains fragments of some of 
the charred beams in a small Egyptian jar 
in the study. 

He says that he has been often charged 
with plagiarism, and gave me a most 
amusing instance of such charges, which 
are so easy to bring, and so recklessly made. 

" I once wrote a skit called * Mr. Meeson's 
Will/" he said. "It was a little hit at the 

Covrt of Probate, where I practised. The 
heroine of the skit is supposed to have a 
will tattooed upon her shoulders. Now, it 
appears that there was a French novel — 
which I had never seen, read, heard, or 
dreamed of — in which there is a fair damsel 
who has a will tattooed on another part of 
her body. I was at once charged with 
appropriating this idea. Nothing of the 
kind. The real origin of my tattoo w T as 
a trick played upon an eminent Q.C. 
by his pupils, who sent in a set of papers to 
him for his consideration, in which the w T ill 
propounded was supposed to be executed 
upon the human skin of somebody who 
was cast away on a desert island. The case 
interested our friend the 0*C immensely, 
and he was so taken in as to give the matter 
a great deal of time, and actually gave a 
written opinion as to the validity of the 
document. This is a fair sample of the 
accuracy of these charges/* Also he has been 
attacked because some of his tales are full of 
fights, "But,*' he says, "did reading of fight- 
ing, or even of the oppressions and cruelties 
of tyrants, ever harm any human creature ; 
and are there, on the other hand, no virtues 
to be learned from stories of warriors 

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faithful to the last, ahd of the heroic deaths 
of men ? Is a boy, for instance, the worse 
for being taught that his hands were given 
hi . to defend his head ; or, if need be, his 
cause and his country ? I believe that there 
is more evil to be learned from what may 
be read in a week's issue of the daily papers 
than from all the books which deal with 
fighting and kindred adventures that arc 

Eublished in a generation, And while I 
old this opinion I shall go on writing 
about such things, though sometimes I 
like to undertake an orthodox novel by 
way of a change. A man is not neces- 
sarily of a sanguinary mind because he tells 
stories of how people killed each other in 
past ages, or in the land of fable." 

Mr. Haggard claims to create every 
character in his novels, and he considers 
six months a fair time to complete an im- 
portant work. He takes no share in the 
arrangements for the publication of his 
books, which are managed by Mr, Watt, 
the iiterary agent, and never reads a review 
of them, unless it chances to appear in some 

paper which he takes in, because he says 
that, if the notice be favourable, it is apt to 
give an author too good an idea of himself ; 
and, if the reverse, to worry and discourage 
him, and todlsgust him with his work. Afore- 
over, he is of opinion that the writer of a 
book knows a great deal more of its strong 
and weak points than any reviewer, how- 
ever impartial, winch all reviewers are not ; 
and that Time is likely to be a better judge 
than either author or critics, all of whose 
individual opinions are, therefore, somewhat 
superfluous. He usually writes some three 
or four thousand words a day, sitting down 
at a great oaken writing table, with a liberal 
supply of foolscap paper, about half-past 
four, working on till dinner-time, and again 
resuming the thread of his story at night fi x 
an hour or two. In the morning the farm 
and his correspondence claim him. His 
favourite work, and the one he considers 
his best, is "Eric Brighteyes/' "She" 
comes next. Amongst his own characters 
his love leans toward k * Beatrice." 

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I 1 . ■ I ' / I \ 

^\ 1 1 ixks \ jO w . if i 

77/<? Cornet-Player, 

From thk Spanish ok Pkjjku A. de Alarcgn, 

[Pedro Antonio de ALlivuii was born in itfjj, uE Guadix, in (lit province nf Uruiutdi. Having studied 

f'hilusophv in Granada j he returned to Guadix to follow an ecclesiastical trailing, but soon abandoned it for a 
iterary career, which was more to his tasie He wenl to Madrid, and contributed to several papers, his 
attractive style making u decided impression. When the Revolution broke out in 1854, Alurcon started a 
Republican paper ; but bis enthusiasm for Republican ideas appears to have been of short duration. The 
war in Africa afforded him an opportunity to satisfy his desire for adventure ; rifle and pen alternately in 
hand, he followed the military operations, and wrote his very successful " Diary of an h/ye-Witness/ 1 lie took 
pari in politics, becoming in turn deputy and senator ; but finally abandoned every thing in favour of literary 
work. His stories and poems enjoy considerable popularity. When he published the following story he declared 
that it would be his last \ and, to the grief of his admirers, so it proved. He died in July last, after years of 
suffering ] 

H ! Don Basilio, do play us 
a tune upon the cornet, 
so that we can have a 
dance ! M 

11 Yt-s, yes, Don Basilio ! 
Do play the cornet ! " 
11 Bring; Don Basilio the cornet which 
Joaquin had when he was learning.'* 

11 It is not a very good one, but you will 
play it, will you not, Don Basilio ? n 

s *No! " 

11 Why not ? " 

11 Because I cannot ! 1T 

a Oh ! " {derisively). " Why, you used to 
be a bandmaster in an infantry regiment ! " 

" Well, yei> j it is quite true. I used to 




play the cornet. I was a crack player, as 
you say. But it is also a fact that about 
twelve years ago I gave my cornet to a 
beggar, and have never blown a note since. " 

44 Bravo ! Here's the cornet ! Now you 
must play." 

"lam very sorry, dear children, but I 
really cannot play." 

44 Oh, yes, you will ! You are so good- 
natured ! " 

44 Won't you play to please me, grand- 
father ? " 

44 And me ) uncle ? " 

44 Good gracious, children, do not tease 
me so ! I have told you that I do not 

4 * But why?" 

44 Because I made a vow that I would not 
play. I made a vow to myself, to one who 
is now dead, and to your poor mother, my 
daughter ! " 

At these words all faces became sorrowful. 

44 Ah ! " sighed the old man, 4| if you 
knew what it cost me to learn the cornet ! " 

44 Tell us the story ! " cried the younger 
ones in chorus. 

44 Well, there is a story attached to it," 
said Don Basilio, * 4 so I will tell it." 

And, seating himself under a tree, the old 
man related, to the swarm of young people 
who surrounded him, how he had learned 
to play the cornet : — 

4 'It is some years now since the Civil 

War broke out in Spain. I had a 

friend, a lieutenant in the same battalion 

as I, the most accomplished man I ever 

knew. We had been educated together, 

left college together, and fought side by 

side in many a fight. We were both 

willing to die in the cause of freedom — 

he was, if possible, more enthusiastic than I ! 

44 But what happened ? A superior 

officer was guilty of an act of injustice 

towards my friend Ramon — one of those 

cases of abuse of authority which spoil the 

most honourable careers — in short, an 

arbitrary act so offended the lieutenant as 

to cause him to leave the army, to separate 

from me, his friend, and go over to the 

opposite party. He said he would kill the 

officer, for he was very high-spirited, and 

would not take an insult from anybody. 

Nothing that I could say was of use. 

We were at that time in Asturia, about 

three leagues from the enemy. Ramon 

was to desert that night. It was cold and 

rainy, dark and dismal, that night before 

the battle. 

44 It was about midnight when Ramon 
entered my tent and aroused me. 4 Basilio ! ' 
he whispered in my ear. 

44 i Who is that ? ' 

44 4 It is I. Good bye ! ' 

44 4 What ! are you going already ? ' 

44 4 Yes. Good-bye ! ' And he grasped 
my hand. 4 Listen,' he continued. 4 Should 
we have a battle to-morrow, which seems 
probable, and meet on the field ' 

44 4 1 know ; we are friends.' 

44 4 Good ; we salute each other and 
go on fighting. It is probable that I shall 
die to-morrow, for I am resolved not to 
leave the field until I have killed the 
Colonel. As for yourself, do not be too 
rash ; fame is only a shadow.' 

44 4 So is life. 1 

44 4 You are right. Well, may you become 
a general ! ' exclaimed Ramon ; 4 the pay is 
certainly not shadowy. Alas! all that is 
finished for me!' 

44 4 Good gracious, what an idea ! ' I cried, 
with assumed confidence. 4 You see if we 
do not both survive the battle to-morrow.' 

44 4 Suppose we make an appointment ? ' 

44 4 Where, and at what time ? ' 

44 4 At the San Nicholas Asylum, at one 
o'clock at night. If either of us does not 
appear, he has fallen. Is that agreed? ' 

44 4 Right ! Now, farewell ! ' 

444 Farewell!' 

44 We embraced one another tenderly, and 
Ramon vanished in the shadows of night. 

44 As we feared — or, rather, as we hoped — 
the insurgents attacked us on the following 
day. The fight was a fierce one, and lasted 
from three o'clock in the afternoon till 
nightfall. I saw Ramon once ; he was 
wearing the Carlist cap. He had already 
become commandant, and had killed our 
colonel. I was not so fortunate ; the insur- 
gents took me prisoner. 

One o'clock at night — the hour of my 
appointment with Ramon ! I was confined 
in a cell in the prison of a small town occu- 
pied by the Carlists. 

44 1 asked after Ramon and the reply 
was : 4 Ah ! he is a brave fellow. He killed 
a colonel. But he is dead, no doubt.' 

44 4 What ! dead ? ' 

44 4 Yes ; he has not been seen since the 

44 1 leave you to guess what I went 
through that night. One gleam of hope 
remained : that Ramon was waiting for me 
in the Asylum of San Nicolas, and this was 
the reason he had not returned to the in- 

surgent camp- 

UNIVl_h_>i 1 



ill, be his grief/ 



I thought j * when he finds that I do not 
arrive ; lie will think I am dead. And is 
my last hour really far off? The insur- 
gents always shoot their prisoners \ To- 
morrow I must die ; bat Ramon will return 
before then. But suppose he has fallen ? 
Good Heaven ! relieve mc from this uncer- 
tainty ! * And thus I waited for the morrow. 

" An army chaplain entered the cell in 
the morning ; my companions 
in misfortune were still sleeping 

u ■ Death ? ! I ex- 
claimed when I saw 
the chaplain. 

111 Yes/ he answer- 
ed, in a gentle voice, 

11 ( Are we to die 
at once ? ' 

" * No ; in three 
hours' time/ 

" A minute later 
my companions were 
all awake, and the 
prison resounded 
with cries, sobs, and 

"They allowed 
me to wear my 
officer's uniform ; a 
Carlist cap was 
placed on my head, 
and a soldier's cloak 
thrown round me. 
In this way I walked 
to the place of execu- 
tion with my twenty 
companions. One 
prisoner — and only 
one — escaped death ; 
he was a musician, 
and they spared the 
lives of musicians be- 
cause they did not 
fight, and because 
they, the Carlists, were in 
need of bands for their 
battalions/* ^^ 

11 A n d w c r e y on a 
musk ian r Don Basilio? Were you saved 
by being a musician? ?1 interrupted all the 
young people at the same time. 

u No, my children/' answered the veteran ; 
4b I was not a musician, I scarcely understood 
a note of music." 1 

" The square was formed " {continued 
Don Basilio), "and we were placed in the 
middle. My number was ten ; that is 4 I 

was to be the tenth to die. Then I thought 
of my wife and my daughter — your mother, 

li The firiag began ; I was blindfolded, so 
could not see my companions. I tried to 
count the volleys, so that I might know 
when my turn came ; but I lost count at 
about the third volley. Oh ! those volleys ! 
At one time they seemed a thousand miles 

" DEATH 1 " 

off, the next time so close that they seemed 
to be fired at me. 

41 'This time ! ' I thought. The reports 
rang out and still I w r as untouched, 

" * Now it is my turn, 1 I said to myself for 
the last time, I felt something clutch me 
by the shoulders and shake me, and there 
was a roar in my ears, I fell unconscious ; 
I imagined that I was shot dead. 

"The nexi thing 1 remembered was that 



I seemed to be lying on my 
bed in the prison, I could 
^ee nothing. 1 raided my 
hand to my eyes to take oil 
the bandage T but I toadied 
my eyes instead ; they were 
wide open, 

"The prison cell 
was quite dark ; I 
heard the ncise of 
bells and trembled, 
It was the evening 
bells. 'Nine o'clock/ 
I thought ; 'but 
what day is it ? * 

14 A shadow, 
blacker than the 
darkness of the cell, 
bent over me. It 
appeared to be a 
man ; and where 
were all the others? 
AH shot dead? And 
I ? I lived ; or else I 
was in my grave , 
dreaming all kinds 
of nonsense. My lips mechanically whispered 
a name, the name which filled my mind : 

11 ' Ramon ! ' 

4i * What do you want ? J answered the 
shadow at my side. 

41 * Great Heaven!' I cried, shuddering 
with horror ; ' am I in the other world ? ' 

" l No,' said the same voice. 

il * And I, am I alive too ? } 

u * Ramon ! Are you alive ? ' 
» * Yes/ 

** i Where am I ? Is this the Asylum of 
San Nicolas! Then I am not a prisoner, 
and I have dreamt it alt/ 

11 l No , Basilic, you "have not dreamt it. 
Listen/ And this is what he told me : 

** * Yesterday I killed the Colonel on the 
field of battle ; I am avenged ! I continued 
to fight and deal out death, for I was blind 
and mad with rage ; and I fought till the 
night fell, and the battle was over, 

41 * I was much fatigued ; and, as I saw 
the moon rising, I thought of you, and 
bent my steps towards the San Nicolas 
Asylum to await your coming. It was 
ten o'clock, and the appointed time was 
one o'clock. On the previous night I had 
not had a wink of sleep, so I fell into a 
sound slumber. 

M i I awoke with a cry of fright as the 
clock struck one, I had dreamt that you 
were dead P I looked around, and found 

Digitized by OoOSlC 


myself alone. Where were you ? The 
clock struck two — then three— then four ; 
still you did not come. Of a certainty you 
were dead. 

(tt The thought drove me to despair, 
The day was breaking, and I left the Asylum, 
and made my way hither to rejoin my 
troop. I reached here at sunrise. Thev 
all thought that I had fallen in the battle, 
and when they saw me they overwhelmed 
me with congratulations, embraced me, 
and told me that I was just in time to see 
twenty one prisoners shot, 

114 Suddenly a thought sprang up in my 
mind — wns Basilio among them ? I hurried 
to the place of execution ; the square had 
already been formed, and I heard shots. 
The firing had begun, 

M 4 1 strained my eyes to distinguish the 
prisoners, but I saw nothing, Pain made 
me blind ; my brain reeled with anxiety 
and excitement. At last I distinguished 
you — you were to be shot, you / 

u ' Two more victims, then it would be 
your turn. What was to be done ? My 
senses threatened to leave me ; I uttered a 
cry ; I threw my arms around you ; and in 
a choking, yet clear tone, I cried out : 
si Not this one ! Not this one, General ! n 

"'The General who commanded this 
division, and who knew me, and also knew 
how I behaved yesterday, asked me : "Why 
not ? Is he a musician ? Tt 




" 4 This question was to me what a sudden 
glimpse of a springtide sun would be to a 
man born blind, A ray of hope gleamed in 
front of rne, so unexpectedly, so strong, that 
it confused me, "A musician ? " I cried, 
"yes, yes, General ; he is a musician, a 
Rreat musician! 1 ' You, Basilic, were then 
lyin£ unconscious* 


" ' a What instrument does he play ? " 
asked the General. 

(14i 'Why — er, the — er, that is, the — why. 
of course, he plays the cornet- a- piston/' 
I stammered. 

a ; u jy we wan t; a cornet-player ? " asked 
the General, turning to the band, 

"<Five seconds, which seemed like five 
centuries, passed before the answer came* 
u Yes, General, we do want one, 1 ' answered 
the bandmaster, 

11 * " Take this man tway, then , and let the 
execution go on," sqid the General Sol 

Digitized by L^OOQ IC 

took you in my arms, and brought you to 
this prison/ 

"Ramon had scarcely finished when I 
jumped up, and, forgetting where we were, 
embraced him : trembling all over, and 
laughing and crying at the same time, 
" ' I owe you my life ! T I said, 
44 l Not quite/ answered Ramon. 

11 i What do you mean ? ' I cried, 
11 ' Can you play the cornet ? ' he 

" 4 No/ I replied. 

Then we have a bad look-out/ 
And indeed, children, a cold shudder 
went through mc, 

w l And music ? ' 
/ ," >* ^ asked Ramon, ( Do 

f Us / f 

A -^sr " "■ ' 

you understand 
music ? T 

" * A little, very 
little ; just what we 
learnt at college — 
you know how much 
that was/ 

" ■ Yes, that t's a 
little — we might a? 
well say nothing, 
You are doomed, 
without doubt, and I 
y also for having de- 
ceived them, for the 
band to which you 
are to belong must 
be ready in two 

44 * In two weeks ! ' 
44 i Neither more 
nor less. And if yon 
cannot play the cor- 
net — well, unless 
Providence works a 
miracle on our behalf, they will shoot us 
both without mercy/ 

14 4 Shoot you ! * I exclaimed. t Vou / and 
through me ; m? t whose life you saved ! No, 
Heaven will not permit it ! In fourteen 
days I will play the cornet ! ' And Ramon 

11 Well, children, in a fortnight— such is 
the power of the will— in fourteen days, with 
fourteen nights (I did not sleep or rest the 
whole time), I learnt to play the cornet- 
Yes, you may well stare* 

14 Oh ! what days those were I Ramon 
and 1 went out from the camp into the 
fields, and spent the whole day with a 
musician, who came from a neighbouring 
town to give me lessons. 

"I neither spoke nor thought ; I scarcely 





ate, T was suffering fmm a kind of mad- 
ness. My one idea was music— the cornet, 
I made up my mind to learn T and [ learnt. 
And it seems to me that had I been dumb 
I should have learnt to speak \ lame — to 
walk ; blind — I should have recovered my 
sight '—because I had the will f Where 
there's a will there** a way ! I had the 
will, and I succeeded. Children, mark that ! 

" So I saved our lives ; but the experience 
affected my brain ; I was mad about music. 
For three years the cornet was s/Txcely ever 
out of my hands. C, D, E, F T G, A, B, C : 
that was my world, and my life was spent 
in blowing the cornet. 

" Ramon would not leave me. I went to 
France with him, and played the cornet 
there. The cornet and I were one. My 

madness was like that of Donizetti's* 
K very body came to hear me, including the 
leading musicians ; I was a prodigy; In 
my hands the cornet became a living thing; 
it sighed, it groaned, laughed, scolded ; it 
mimicked the bird and the beast of prey, 
as well as the sobs of a human being. My 
lungs were of iron, 

(l Thus I lived for two years longer, and 
at the end of that time Ramon died, The 
sight of my friend's lifeless body had such 
an effect upon me that it broke the spell 
and restored my reason, I took up the 
cornet — but my skill was gone, and T could 
not play it. 

" Now do you wish me to play you a 
dance? n 

^ Google 

Original from 

Dinner at the Zoo. 

HE place, the 
Zoological Gar- 
dens. Tim;-, 
nearly half- past 
The visitors, having 
been deprived of their shil- 
lings by the man at the 
gate, make a bold push for 
the pelicans' enclosure, for 
ZAo is the pelican dinner- 
hour, A pelican who is 
not eating is commonly n 
melancholy sort of bird, 
with a conviction that too much of his 
leg material has been used up to con- 
struct a beak, and a disposition to brood 
over the inequitable distribution of things* 
But dinner-time works :i marvellous 
change in the pelican. His beak isn't half 
big enough then, and he would gladly, if 
he could, add a yard of material to the 
floppy pouch hanging beneath it. When 
the keeper arrives with a basket of fish, the 
casual observer sees little in the enclosure 
but a complication of very large beaks, like 
snapping shears which" bite, snap, flop, 
grunt, and become entangled together 
generally. But the budding Progognomist 
observes ihe varying actions of those beaks. 
He views the floppy pouches with discre- 
tion and the stumpy legs with judgment. 
Consider the 
corner enclosure, 
now. Here there 
are white pelicans 
(it is more ma- 
jestic to call the 
white pelican 
Pehcanus onoc ra- 
ta ins) with one 
specimen of the 
crested pelican, 
whose Latin 
name is not so 
many feet long. 
As the keeper 
opens his basket, 
and when most 
of the beaks snap 
wildly in the air, 
our crested friend 
uses his own beak 

to belabour the heads and snatch at the 
eyes of those about him. The worthy 
old fellow object? T and very naturally, 
to anybody getting anything to eat but 
himself ; so he wastes his time and loses 
his opportunities in attempts to chevy 
his relatives away from the fence, one at a 
time. Then, when herrings fall in a silvery 
shower his time is so much occupied in 
punishing those who catch them that his 
own score must average rather low. Pro* 
gognomically, it is reasonable to say that if 
that crested pelican had been born human 
he would have been a reviewer — a super- 
fine reviewer. Among the other common, 
scrambling, uncrested pelicans, most, in 
waiting for the herrings, reach away over 
the fence, snapping and gobbling madly at 
nothing. One, however— sly old fellow, 
with one eye shut — stands quietly behind 
with his other eye on the keeper and waits. 
He knows that the keeper will throw the 
bloaters into the enclosure, not a yard or 
two on the other side of the fence, where 
the row of straining necks puts forth the 
bill -file— or rank, as you look at it. He is 
right, and, in consequence, comes out 
several bloaters ahead, Thi> pelican need 
never fear transmigration into human 
shape. He will do well anywhere. The 
herrings having all disappeared, gloomy 

by Google' 

'« hau sQifiijHiiai.from 




meditations are renewed, and the crested 
superfine reviewer, with a parting snap or 
two, approaches a stump about a foot high, 
This he solemnly regards for five minutes, 
stretching his wings the while, and prepar- 
ing, apparently, for a flight many miles 
high. Then, with a great effort and an 
excited grunt, he files — on to the stump, 
where he sits in solemn elevation, and 
gobbles savagely at such of the vulgar 
rabble as come within reach. 

From up on the ter- 
race one may look over 
into the bear-pit, and 
drop whatever one 
pleases to the two most 
respectably fat bears be- 
low. Sometimes people 
drop what they don't 
please ; I saw a tall hat 
go once, on a windy 
day. One bear sniffed 
it over rather contemp- 
tuously, turned it with 
his paw, and picked it 
up doubtfully by the 
brim. It was quite a 
new sort of present. 
Biscuits and buns were 
common, a cigar-end 
came sometimes, and 
now and again a pebble 
or a piece of slate- 
pencil ; these he was 
used to, and managed 
to digest pretty well, 
one with another. But 
this new-fangled, shiny 
thing — perhaps a dark 
design to poison him, 
or even dynamite — ■ 
who knew ? And then, 
again — what ! no, it 
couldn't be— sniff — yes, 
without a doubt, it 
actually smelt of bear's 
grease inside ! All that 
bears nobler feelings 
were aroused ; he was 
no cannibal, nor would 
he accept a meal — par- 
ticularly one he didn't 
understand — from the 
slayer of an ursine brother. He dropped 
the hat in disgust, while the owner started 
off to find a keeper. Before he came back, 
however, the other bear, expecting a bun, 
got upon his hind legs and sat on that hat. 
There are few hatters who will undertake 

surrrtRTivP iv vqlupjtarv contributions 

to iron a hat which a bear has been sitting 
en, for sixpence. 

These two bears, being chiefly supported 
by voluntary contributions, exhibit all the 
fine artistic laziness of the professional 
tramp. If you begin throwing biscuits, one 
will, indeed, sit up to catch them ; but that 
is really only to save trouble and get the 
morsels sooner, for you are expected to pitch 
them into his mouth. Throw one two or 
three feet away, and observe the expression 
of reproach which 
creeps over that bear's 
face* You are either 
a shocking duffer, he 
thinks, or a most mali- 
cious person, and he 
slowly rolls over on all 
fours and finds the bis- 
cuit. Starvation will 
compel him to ascend 
the pole ; that is to say f 
if the brutal callousness 
of visitors ba^ kept him 
without the necessaries 
of life for about ten 
minutes, he may, with 
persuasion, be induced 
to climb for a bun, 
But it must be made 
perfectly clear that 
without the climb star- 
vation will continue ; 
and the bun must be 
plainly and temptingly 
exhibited in all its 
sticky gloriousness, on 
the end of a stick. 
Then Ursus arctos^ re- 
signing himself to the 
inevitable, looks first 
for commiseration to 
the other bear. " Here's 
a nice state o" things," 
he seems to say, u for a 
pore workin' bear as 
lias to pick up his livin' 
perrniskus, I'd strike 
\\ I wasn't famishing. 
They ought to be ob- 
liged to chuck 'em 

by LiOOgle 

down into our mouths 
by Act of Parlyrnent." 

And then he reluctantly starts up the 


Arrived at the top, and having devoured 

the bun, he looks about, as though to say, 

" Well, where's the rest? I want something 

for my climbing, I do. You're the sort as 

4 jTiginaTTrom 




wants people to work for n nth in 1 , you are. 
I want my rights as a workin* bear " ; and 
he opens his contribution box to its fullest 
extent. Biscuits and another bun follow 
the first, and still the collecting-box is 
offered, till the crowd melts away. Then 
the hear looks round for more commisera- 
tion. Xobocly being there to commiserate 
him, he commiserates himself. u Got to 
climb down again for nothing I s'pose. 
Who's goin' to pay me for that, I'd like to 
know ? Nice sort </ world this/' If we 
had to compare this bear to a human being, 
who would the 
human being be? 
Let us think, 
There's the threat 
of a strike ; the 
demand of his 
rights as a work- 
ing bear ; the 
peculiar English 
dialect he thinks 
in — I know he 
thinks in that 
dialect j such a 
bear couldn't 
think many other 
—and there is the 
contribution box. 
Why, can it be 
a peculiar section 
of — but no, com- 
parisons are 

Arriving at the 
the animal Pro- 
gognomist is apt 
to be nonplussed. 
It is scarcely fair 
to a beginner to 
set him to deal 
with an advanced 
genus like the 
monkeys — only 
one remove in the 
class below the 
human f a m i ly. 
And, besides, 

however, will tell many things, How one 
monkey would prefer, beyond all things, the 
glasses off the nose of an interested by- 
stander ; but, through difficulties with the 
mesh of the wires, has never been able to 
achieve more than a single eyeglass. How 
even the offer of a nut will not seduce 
others from mutual cuticular investigations. 
How the Diana monkey, pretty as it is, is 
clearly misnamed, since it is disrespectful to 
suggest the possibility of the chaste god^ 
dess turning rapid summersaults by way 
of earning a biscuit. Many more things 

than these will 
be learned, and 
instructive theo- 
ries based there- 
upon ; but for our 
present purposes 
monkeys are too 
large a study. 

A slork is a 
bird of a very 
different mental 
mould from the 
pelican. The peli- 
can broods, the 
stork meditates ; 
the pelican is a 
Jeremiah, the 
stoTk is a Solo- 
mon. This, of 
course, in the 
monumental or 
non-eating con- 
dition. A much 
respected if not 
very numerous 
class of Hindoo 
pundit achieves 
immortality and 
avoids the trans- 
migration of his 
soul into an in- 
ferior body -by 
sitting in strict 
seclusion, and 
concentrating his 
whole mental 


faculties on nc- 
what sort of individual study can he make thing whatever for many years, or, perhaps, 
opposite a large cage, when the exhibi- by fixing his eyes upon his outstretched 

tion of a single crumb will produce the 
sort of demonstration which the artist 
here gives us ? A crowd of clutching 
paws and chattering teeth can scarcely 
give grounds for any definite scientific 
conclusion, except that all the monkeys 
want the same morsel. Careful watching, 

Digitized by {jQOglC 

little finger and his thumb against his nose 
for as long a period. Now, if during all 
this time this sacred personage were to make 
a mistake— allow his attention to wander, for 
instance, in the direction of cut lets for dinner^ 
or the Home Rule question, or his fingers, in 
a moment, of forgetfulness, to leave his nose 




and scratch his ear— if he were to do some- 
thing of this sort, and thus incur transmi- 
gration in the regular Buddhist course, I 
believe he would become a stork, Indeed, 
I have no doubt that the storks whose pro- 
fundity of meditation we all so much 
admire in the Zoological Society's Gardens 
are incarnations of most respectable and 
influential Alahatmas who have had an 
accident in training, and so become scratched 
from the race of immortals, Observe their 
attempts to renew training. Did ever 
M ah at ma in this world so solemnly > so in- 
tensely, so severely bring his whole mental 
faculties to bear on nothing for hours to- 
gether as one of these ? The stork is 
endeavouring to make up for lost time. 
There he stands, with his shoulders humped, 
his eyes half open, looking at nothing ; all 
the brains under his almost bald pate are 
set to work upon the same object. But he 

will never com- 
plete his allotted 
term of medita- 
tion—never, that 
is to say, so long 
as it is the custom 
to feed him regu- 
larly. Look ! the 
time for dinner 
approaches- Most 
would observe no 
change in the de- 
meanour of the 
stork ; but the 
close examiner 
will detect a slight 
quiver of the eye : 
the temptation is 
too strong, and 
his glance almost 
impercepti bly 
zanders to where 
the keeper usually 
appears with the 
fish. Alas ! the 
flesh is weak* His 
eyes have strayed 
from their con- 
templation of 
nothing, and his 
mind follows, 
(i Wonder what's 
for dinner to- 
day V thinks the 
stork. " White- 
bait, perhaps, or soles— glorious ! Some- 
thing worth being a stork for 1 Even a 
whiting wouldn't be so bad, while, as for a 

Digitized by Lt* 


nice trout with — well, there!" Soon the 
keeper appears. The stork doesn't run 
after him — that would not be becoming 
in a Mahatma ; he w T aits with pretended 
indifference. And the keeper throws to- 
ward him — herrings, actually and literally 
herrings ! It is too 
bad. Bloaters again ! 
But he doesn't fly 
into an undignified 
and unphilosophic 
rage ; without mov- 
ing other wise j he 
simply elevates his 
eyelids to their fur- 
thest extent, and 
turns from under 
them a sadly, re- 
signedly reproachful 
gaze on the keeper. 
Oh the sorrow of 
it ! All his noble 
resolves, his heroic 
concentration, his 
immortal training, 
thrown to the wind* 
for two penn'orth of 
bloaters ! Bitter- 
ness and woe ! Not- 
withstanding which 
he swallows the 

Walk quietly 
away round beyond 
the southern ponds. 
Here is a cage from 
which some well- 
satisfied carni vor e 
has retired into his 
den, leaving the end 

of his tail over the threshold as an intimation 
to visitors. He has also left a fairly well 
picked bone, and a scrap or two of biscuit 
thrown in by human admirers. Step softly* 
A syndicate of three mice has gone into 
business with the bone, and a saucy sparrow 
is levying a distress on the biscuit. The 
sparrow flies away without affording an 
opportunity for study ; but from w T hat can 
be seen of the mice their principles seem 
to be dishonest. The morals of the mouse 
are hopeless, 

Alongpast here are the wolves' and foxes 1 
cages. The fox is a sharp feeder, but a well- 
behaved one ; the wolf isn't. A pair of ani- 
mals that fight and yelp and make a swirl of 
unholy confusion over food which is quite 
enough for two are unimproving examples 
of domestic concord. Leave them alone. 







Here is a gra% T el walk leading to a hand- 
some red building — the lion house. Feed- 
ing time is still in the future, consequently 
one lion is lying on his left side, 
another on his right ; a third 
with his nose between his paws, 
and most of them asleep. The 
tigers are as lazy as the lions, 
only more so. The cheetahs and 
panthers area little less lethargic, 
but every face with any expres- 
sion at all in it — lion's, tiger's, or 
t eopa r d 's — e x pre sses the same 
thing — an utter, ineffable con- 
tempt and indifference for the 
whole human race 
and all its works. If 
the Emperor of Rus- 
sia, Mr, John L, Sul- 
livan, li General * r 
Booth, and Mr. Tracy 
Turnerelli were to 
walk past arm in arm, 
no eye would turn, 
nor tail wag, and not 
a symptom of interest 
would these lions 
show. If Lord Ran- 
dolph Churchill were 
in the group, they 

might tremble a little (at any rate, the 
African ones would), but they would con- 
ceal their terror, even then, They would 
reflect that Lord Randolph was safe beyond 
strong bars, and this would have a large 
effect in calming their .agitation. 
Which leads me to mention a 
little theory of my own in re- 
gard to the listlessness and 
boredom of these lions and 
tigers, Seeing the bars before 
them, it is, I believe, their firm 
conviction that all the human 
sight-seers are caged off, and 
are passed before them in review 
as interesting curiosities, being 
kept from annoying the august 
spectators, the lions and tigers, 
by strong bars, a low railing, 
and the notices which are stuck 
on the wall. They have be- 
come bored and listless because 
the show is so long and so 
monotonous. A continual pro- 
cession of lions and tigers, miles 
long, day after day, for several 
years, would bore us. Being 
just such a show ourselves, we 
bore the lions and tigers. Some- 
times a little variety is introduced by a 
mischievous boy, in spite of the printed 
notice, throwing a biscuit with great accu- 




racy into a tiger's eye, or pitching a 
small paper of snuff under a lion's nose ; 
then they growl aloud or roar to the 
keepers, their body servants, to let those 
faithful men know that someone is hurt- 
ing; their felines. I once saw the notice 
about irritating the animals set at naught 
by a bold, bad artist who was trying 
to sketch a rampant lion. The l;on wouldn't 
ramp a bit 1 but lay in the most madden- 
ingly supine attitude possible, on his side, 
with his nose on his paws against the bars 
and his eyes shut. He had observed that 
one of the strange two-legged creatures 
before him had been provided with a sketch- 
book and pencil — probably in order to in- 
terest him by a little change in the usual 
programme — but he wasn't interested ; so 
he lay as I have said. The artist whistled, 
hissed, and growled at him ; but he was 
Hiblimely indifferent. Then a bright 
thought struck that artist. Observing the 
keeper looking out of window at the other 
end of the house, he leant well over the 
barrier and took a good hold of one of 
Leu's whiskers, protruding through the 
bars ; this he tugged vigorously, and imme- 
diately produced a rampant lion, ready-made, 
on the spot, with tail, claw r s, teeth, and roar 
complete. The sketch was a great success, 
but I do not recommend the process for 
general use, for several reasons. Even in 
this case retribution fell on the artist some 
time afterwards ; for he became a lion-tamer 
himself, and while at a show in Germany 
gave another lion an opportunity of biting 
a piece off his head, which the sagacious 
animal availed itself of. But — as a distin- 

guished author would say — that is another 
1 — story, I mean. 

But four o'clock slowly approaches, and 
the animals soon become conscious of this* 
The lionesses give the first indications of 
the approach of dinner time by walking 
along inside the bars and doing all possible 
to look sidelong toward the keeper and 
round the corner, whence, at the blissful 
hour, emerges the trolly of beef. Thus the 
wives. The faithful husbands still lie in- 
different, merely turning an eye from time 
to time in the direction of their helpmeets, 
us who would say, u The old woman's un- 
necessarily excited — just like the sex. All 
that anxiety won't bring the dinner sooner ; 
and it's very undignified," But soon, as 
the lioness grou r s more restless, the master 
of the house rises to his feet, which is 
sensible. If a healthy, full-sized lioness 
were running about near me, and treading 
on my stomach occasionally, I should want 
to get up myself. Once upon his feet he 
becomes to some extent infected by the 
agitation of the lady, and, although he never 
allows it quite so far to overcome his 
dignity, he can't conceal his interest in the 
forthcoming business. Soon rumours begin 
to pass up and down among the cages, by 
the medium of growl and roar, The third 
tiger from the end, counting from the west 
door, can just get a glimpse of the clock by 
standing on his hind legs and squeezing his 
left eye into the corner against the bars. 
He reports that it is already two minutes to 
four, albeit there is no sign yet of the ap- 
pearance of the usual refreshments. The 
news is passed along amid general indigna- 

— ™ ~l2> 

Original from 
iB: ^»<|}fl 1VERS | T Y 0FM | CH | GAN 



tion, and there are hints of an organised 
strike. Then a second keeper is reported 
to have appeared, and the crowd of visitors 
has become visibly larger. At these hope- 
ful indications great enthusiasm is displayed 
and prime beef stock regains its premium. 
Just now a slight diversion is created by a 
domestic tiff between two leopards who 
both want to trot tip and down against the 
bars at once , and object to being run 
against. They bare their teeth with a 
mutual yell, and the lady goes for the 
countenance of her lord and master with 
her nails. Said lord and master promptly 
rolls on his back, and elevating his own 
finger nails and opening his mouth in an 
uninviting grin, awaits the attack. Lady 
surveys the situation generally, and changes 
her mind. 

The third tiger from the end is reported 
to have expressed his opinion that the 
clock is slow. Immense sensation, One of 
the keepers being seen to retire toward the 
back of the building, lion and lioness rise to 
equal excitement and join in a general roar 
and dance. 

The human crowd has largely increase I, 

nose through the bars, and reaches madly 
with both paws for all the beef and the 
trolly and keepers complete. He seizes the 
piece of beef offered him on the end of a 
pole, and promptly subsides into low grunts, 
growls, and purrs, a* he tears it apart. 
Others perform in the same way, and soon 
a row of lions is busy in the matter of 
refresh men ts— niuch too absorbed to be 
grateful, and never remembering the waiter. 
Such married couples as may feed together 
manoeuvre deftly before the keeper as he 
selects the " portions,*' each intent on get- 
ting opposite the first piece, to which end 
they maintain a continual game of leap* 
frog, taking each other's backs in pauselc-s 
succession. The third tiger from the end, 
as he turns his regular circle, never stops 
when the trolly arrives opposite his cage, 
although he steadfastly regards it from the 
corner of his eye. He is a careful tiger T and 
means to measure up to the very second he 
is served. So he continues his trot after his 
tail, although it becomes visibly a quicker 
trot in a smaller circle, until the beef is thrust 
under the bars, when lie promptly exchanges 
his gyratory attitude for that here depicted* 

and the remaining occupants of 
the cages bounce more wildly 
than ever. The third tiger 
from the end, who is quite a 
horological character in his way, abandons 
contemplation of the clock, and begins mea- 
suring the remaining seconds, and working 
off his excitement by running round after 
his tail in a small circle. And now, with a 
grateful, gurgling roll in the tram lines 
provided for its reception, the trolly appears. 
Multiply all the previous bouncing, jump- 
ing, dancing, and roaring by five, and 
realise the effect of this apparition. Accom- 
panied by two keepers it proceeds to the 
tnd cage, where a wickedly handsome 
ruffian of a Nubian lion attempts to cram his 

^^ Digitized by t^OOQ IC 


AH are fed, and grunting content pos- 
sesses the Inm house. It will be pefeeivedj 
however* that married couples who feed 
together do it in opposite corners, keeping 
each an eye on the other, and taking care 
to finish the repast at least as soon, lest any 
part of that juicy beef remain to, be dis- 
puted, and possibly lost. 

A more docile sort of lion is fed half an 
hour later — the sea-lion, who is really only 
a very big kind of seal, badly wanting a 
shave. He possesses also the distinction 
above other seate of a psir of ears, and the 






tenancy of an unusually eligible and com- 
modious pond, with a platform to crawl 
upon and a chair if he wants to sit- He is 
a good swimmer, but his walk is not cap- 
tivating. He can't help it ; it is not easy 
to cultivate a military stride on flappers. 
He is as impatient for his dinner in his way 
as the big cats, but he is quieter and better 
behaved. He climbs out of his pond, ambles 
up the gravel path to the gate, and receives 
the condolences of the visitors through the 
bars* The keeper is a good friend of his, 
><> lie does not blame him for not bringing 
those fish half an hour before the proper 
time, but he feels grieved, nevertheless. 
When the keeper does come, he has no 
more loyal and obedient friend than the 
sea-lion. He will do anything for him— 
or for a herring. He will climb up on the 
chair and catch the fish unerringly in his 
mouth. He will run {or as near it as pos- 
sible) up an inclined plane for one. He 
will rear up most affectionately and kiss 
the keeper — keeping one eye on the bas- 
ket all the time. But readiest of all he 
will plunge into the water with 
splash for any num- 
ter of them, while 
the surrounding 
spectators turn tail 
or open umbrellas 
to avert the con- 
sequent drenching. 
Altogether the sea- 
lion is a pleasant 
beast, but he drops 
into his pond with 
all the weight of a 
hirge bull -calf, ^ 
which is inconside* 
rate to a radius of a 
good many yards. 

Reporters at a fire 
continually speak of 

y H a toogle 


the 4( all-de% f ouring element." This is a 
perversion of a stock term which, 1 am 
convinced, should read lb all-devouring ele- 
phant. TT For an elephant devours things 
which no fire will consume. He will curl 
up his trunk before a small crowd, and 
receive good-hufnouredly a miscellaneous 
shower, in which biscuits, buna, apples, 
cigar-ends, pebbles, and fragments of lead- 
pencil mingle in a riot of miscellaneous* 
ness. He has been known, certainly, to 
shy at snufiT, but that was probably in the 
case of some ignorant elephant not properly 
educated to its use. Most of the elephants 
here are quite up to snuff. If you have 
stuffed a prominent pocket full of sand- 
wiches or apples, it is inadvisable to turn 
your back to Jingo, He is a very respect- 
able elephant, but that is 110 reason for 
unnecessarily exposing him to temptation, 
and placing his honourable reputation in 
danger, I have observed of late, I regret 
to sav, a disposition on the part of the 
Zoological Society's elephants, after leaving 
their daily work, to frequent Messrs, Spiers 
& Pond's bar — the small one, just under 

\*+ ^ ** * * *& 



more study the ways 
of Sally, the famous 
chimpanzee ; fur Sally 
is dead, and hath not 
left her peer, wherein 
she resembles our old 
acquaintance Lycidas. 
The immortal Sally 
no more counts up 
to five and takes her 
afternoon tea with a 
cup and spoon , like a 
Christian soul. She 
has a successor, it is 
true, in Paddy t who 
may become as great 
a genius in his time, 
but who hasn't had 
time yet , and very of- 
ten lias a bad cold. 
Let us hope, however, 
the arch. This is very sad. Of course, for Paddy; and wish him well of all 
there are buns there, and people to buy his colds. For Paddy is certainly a gen- 
theni, but I fear the effect of the habit, tleman, since he wipes his tnouth after 
Jung Petehad, as a very large and sober drinking, and would be a master of 
animal, ought to set a better example. polite manners could he overcome his 

Sad, sad 5 that the Progognomist can no shyness. 

" AUrDfcVutJklKG*" 


by Google 

ginal tram 

The Herald of the Dawn. 

By J. R. Werner. 

[Frvm a Plaluffr a/tf tttlcn in Africa m 1888 j 

|>1k. John Reinhardt Wekxek, the writer of the following 
story, died at him inn , on the Gold Coast of Africa, on August 16 last, 
at the early ajre of iwemy-nine, just us he was rising Into fime tioi 
only a* an African explorer, bui as an author of much skill and 
graphic power. He was known chiefly for his explorations in the 
region of the Congo, and for his book, which appeared two years ago, 
entitled U A Visit to Stanley's Rear Guard/' which describes his 
travels on the Congo and his visit to the camp on the Aniwimi, 
where Major Barttelot and his companions were waiting wearily for 
news and succour from 
their chief, Mr. Werner's 
father was a German, who 
was naturalised in Eng- 
land, and who died at 
Tun bridge, where the 
boy received his educa- 
tion. He was brought up 
as an engineer, and at 
twenty - four entered the 
service of the Congo Free 
State, and made nume- 
rous journeys up and down 
the river, during one of 
which he explored the 
Ngala, till then an un- 
known tributary* He made 
a second visit to the West 
Coast last summer, but had 
not long landed when he 
fell a victim to pneumonia. 
41 The Herald of the Dawn " 
was among the last things 
which he wrote, and is, in 
all essential particulars, a 
most interesting record of mk, j. r. werner. 

his Own ex pe rien Ce . J [From n Molt wrajtf by J A , c fomau* t Ttt nbritifft ] 

WISH you'd give me some- 
thing from the Congo, some- 
thing with a history to it" 

li Well, I'm afraid I have 
nothing much left to give 
you — certainly nothing with 
a history." 

41 Where is that little red .stone you had 
in the spring? " 
" Which ? " 

u Why, the one you had polished — the 
bit of red quartz with the gold in it* fl 
u The one I called the fetish stone? " 

u Oh ! that I had mounted, and gave 
away shortly after the Albert Halt reception. 
There was no gold in it, though it looked 
like it ; it was only iron pyrites, 1 believe. 
Even if it had been gold it would have 
proved nothing, as it was worn to a pebble, 
and might have travelled thousands of 
miles — even from Katanga — before I picked 

it up, Before the reception, half Loudon 
was wild to get tickets, outsiders offering 
from £$ to £10 for them, while no one 
who hud them would part with then; for 
any sum, After the reception all London 
seemed to go Stanley mad. Men whom I 
barely knew would come and ask me for 
some souvenir from the Congo ; others 
would come to my rooms, and walk away 
with any little thing they could lay their 
hands on, if they thought it came from 
Africa ; so, at last, I collected all the small 
things I had about, and gave them away to 
friends to prevent their being pirated by 
mere acquaintances/' 

i{ You went to the Albert Hall reception ? tT 
u Yes ; and I hardly expect to see such 
a sight again in my lifetime. The huge 
building was full to the very roof. You 
were somewhat disappointed with Stanley 
in Philadelphia ; naturally he had rather 
tamed off, You tould not expect him to 




keep up for six months the enthusiasm of 
his first addresses. Then think what it 
must have been to him to walk up that 
great hall, the cynosure of eight thousand 
pairs of eyes. He followed the Prince of 
Wales up to the platform , and then, for the 
first time, I got a chance to study the man 
about whom all London was raring. As 
he stood there responding to that princely 
welcome, my thoughts flew far back to 
three lonely graves in Afric's palm-clad 
soil ; and, as he read on, I gazed round and 
round that vast hall, filled with the flower 
of London society, till a mist came before 
my eyes. The Prince and Stanley, the 
lights, the diamonds, and that sea of faces 
faded away, and in their place seemed the 
pitiless African sun shining down on the 
endless panorama of forested river banks, 
the palmy plains of Langa Langa, tin- 
grassy flaU of Lomami, and the mighty 
reaches of the Congo. Again 1 seemed to 

I found myself picking out Arabs to aim 
at, and using my rifle with what now seems 
to me to have been fiendish deliberation. 
I thought no more of the slugs, but only 
of Deane and poor Dubois/ 1 We never 
found out the actual loss of the Arabs, but 
I feel sure Dubois was well avenged that 
day. If anything had been wanting to 
steady my nerves, I had only to glance 
down at Deane } reduced to a bag of skin 
and bones, lying on a rude bed — his head 
supported on his left hand, while he held a 
revolver in his right — and in his eyes the 
light of courage and resolution, which thirty 
days 1 starvation and misery in the bush had 
not been able to quench. Of all that 
galaxy of beauty, wealth, and fashion, few 
could realise as I could what the relief of 
Emin Pasha had really cost, and what 
Stanley and his companions had gone 
through.'' m 

n But I Want to know the history of that 
pebble. Was it at this fight you picked it 

"l rr>iNiJ MYMnr 

hear the war-cry uf the Houssas, the rush 
of water, and the rattle of musketry, with 
the sharp cracks of the Martinis, answered 
by the deeper bang of the Arabs' flint locks 
and muzzle-loaders. It was my first time 
under fire, and I am afraid that if I had 
had leisure to analyse my feel i tigs as the 
s ] ugs began to whistle round us, I should 
have to acknowledge that I was in a blue 
funk. But I was 'kept too busy, till the 
glamour of fighting was on me, and then 

4l No t it was nearly two 
cKt.™ m . ^aml.- ycara latftrj at Stanley 

Falls, Jameson had just come back 
from Kassongo with Tippoo Tib; and he 
and Barttelot had left for Vangambi with 
the 400 carriers whom thev were going to 
march overland from that place to Yam- 
biiya. 1 was to follow a few days later with 
my chief and Tippoo Tib was to accom- 
pany us. I was down with fever the day 

* Lt. Dubois, who was drowned while nying to es- 
cape with Dejnc uh*n StarJey Falls station wii lost. 




Barttelot left, and did not shake it off till 
several days afterwards. Towards evening 
on the third day I received a message from 
the chief, asking me to come up to the hut 
where he was living, as he had important 
instructions to give me. On going up to 
the Arab house which he used as hts head- 
quarters, I learnt that he had had some 
row with Tippoo Tib about the limits of 
the latter's territory, What had actually 
happened I never heard, and could only 
gather, from the reports of the men who 
had been present, that the Belgian had 
folded his arms across his chest and told 
the Arab chief he would not allow him to 
enter the territory of Bangala ; and that 
Tippoo in reply had merely pointed to the 
canoes that had brought the white man 
over to the south bank, and ejaculated, 
* Inshallah ! enda zako ! ' 

* 4 Whatever the 
row had been, the 
chief was greatly 
alarmed T and ordered 
ine to get everything 
ready in case the 
Arabs attacked us 
that night. Most of 
the stores were on 


shore, and it would have been hopeless to 
convey them to the boat without at- 
tracting the attention of the Arabs ; but, 
as soon as it was dark, the greater part 
of the ammunition and provisions were 

:ed by tTOOgie 

carried down, and got safely on board the 
launch, before, the dark clouds drifting from 
the moon, a flood of silvery light poured 
over all the land. The boat was lying well 
away from all forest and bush, so there was 
very little danger of attack until the moon 
set, between twelve and one — and this gave 
me plenty of time to carry out the chiefs 
orders. I felt sick and giddy, and the fever 
burned like hell fire ; but seldom have I 
worked a-. I did that night. The majority 
raf the Houssas were to remain on shore 
with the chief. I was to have six in the 
launch with me, besides my boy— two to 
work the engines in case of need, and four 
to do sentry-go. The usual allowance was 
two, but that night I was to set a double 
watch — one man on the sun -deck of 
the steamer, and one on shore, close to 
where the anchor lay, in order that he 

might lose no 
time in carrying 
it on board if 

" My orders 
were to have 
everything in 
readiness to get 
up steam in case 
of need f load 
every gun and 
rifle on board, 
and keep a good 
watch, doing 
sentry myself, as 
soon as the moon 
was down, till 
daylight. As the 
chief considered 
it of the first 
importance that 
the Arabs should 
not capture the 
steamer, he gave 
me for sentries 
four Houssas 
who had been on 
night duty for 
some time, and 
had been given 
the whole day 
for sleep. Incase 
of attack, I was, 
on the first 
alarm, to ptlsh out into deep water, and light 
the fire, keeping as near the shore as I 
could, with all my guns ready to cover 
the retreat of the chief and his men. As 
soon as they vrerc ^afV aboard, we were to 




pole out into the current , and drift down 
until steam was up. Should the steamer 
be the first point of attack, I was to pu*h 
out into the middle of the stream, and, if 
possible, wait there until the chief and his 
men joined me, either in canoes or by 
swimming ; but I was on no account tu 
risk the capture of the steamer by the 
Arabs — not even in an attempt to save the 
chief. If I could not beat off the enemy, 
or should the chief be killed, I was to steam 
off down river* In the event of my being 
surrounded and unable to escape, I was to 
proclaim a sauve qui pent, and sink the 
steamer in the deep swirl that spun over 
from the bluff on the south shore two miles 
below the Fall. 

'* Aided by the full light of the tropic 
moon, then some nine days old, I cleared 
the poor little launch for action. As silently 
as possible, we loosed the lids 
of cartridge cases , loaded 
guns, and piled up ramparts 
of bale* and boxes. Swinging 
the boat round till the moon 
shone full on the gauge glass, 
I ran the water into the 
boiler, and laid the fire. All 
being ready, the launch was 
warped down some ten yards 
to where a shelf of rock 
sloped sheer off into deep 
water ; so that, as she lay, 
she had only two feet on the 
shore side, and about eight 
feet on the other. I had kept 
the men on the dark side of 
the steamer, where the sun- 
deck cast a deep shadow ; so 
that j from a distance, only 
the sentry standing up above 
was visible. 

** Everything was now 
finished, but the arrange- 
ments for sinking the boat 
in case of need, and of these 
the men must be kept in 
ignorance. The fireman and 
greaser lay down in the stoke- 
hole with a can of paraf- 
fine for a pillow, and cotton -waste, matches, 
&c., close at hand. Two other men and 
the boy tied themselves into a knot under 
an old blanket in the fore part of the 
launch. One sentry was posted on shore, 
by the anchor, and the other remained on 
the sun -deck above. 

k * As soon as I was alone in the stern of 
the boat, I lifted the centre floor-boards, 

Digitized by V 

and piled them on one side. From under- 
neath I drew up a sledge-hammer and a 
small anvil. Selecting a plate on an out- 
side strike," I arranged the floor- boards so 
as to leave it clear, and laid the hammer 
and anvil close beside it. The anvil was 
about as much as I could lift, and I shud- 
dered as I thought of the fierce struggle 
with the dark waters, should I find it neces- 
sary to heave it through the J -inch plates 
of the poor little launch. The hammer 
was laid ready, in case the anvil did im 
more than spring the rivets. 

u The mosquito* were fearful ; so, having 
done everything I could possibly think of, 
by way of preparing to give the Arabs 
b pertikler perdition/ should they come to 
court it, I tied up a mosquito net and lay 
down on the bales and boxes beneath it, to 
follow the famous example of Mr. Micaw- 



ber. I had hitherto been too busy to notice 
the sentries ; but, knowing the nature of 
the beast, I now turned my gaze in the 
direction of the man on shore. To my 
horror, I observed that he was evidently 
asleep in a position that only a black man 

* The lines of plates in a ship's hull are called 
strikes. An outside si rake is one whose edges oven 
lap the strake= on either side of it. 




could possibly invent. His legs were wide 
apart, both his hands were hid over the 
muzzle of his loaded Snider, and across his 
hands was stretched his lanky throat. Had 
that gun gone off, the ball would have 
passed through both hands, into his throat, 
and out at the crown of his head. 

l * ' Bacolli ! ] I called in muffled tones, 
fearful of waking him too suddenly. No 

kh ' Mo mo ! ' No answer, * That other 
brute is asleep, too/ I exclaimed ; and sure 
enough, on looking up on the sun-deck, I 
found Momo doubled up with his rifle lying 
beside him. Jumping ashore, I approached 

41 When a nigger goes to sleep, he does 



sleep— danger or no danger ; but, should 
he be suddenly aroused, in the former case 
he will let off his gun in any direction in 
which the we^xm may be pointing, and 
take to his heels, I felt carefully for the 
hammer of the Snider, and breathed more 
freely as I found it only at half cock. I 
shook htm, and shouted at him as loud as I 
rtared, gazing fearfully round the while, and 
fancying an Arab In every shadow, All to 
no purpose, Bacolli evidently did not 
sleep by half measure. This would never 
do; so, putting my foot against the stock of 
hU Snider, I grasped it near the muzzle. A 

jerk put me in possession of the gun, and 
sent Bacolli rolling among the rocks. Up 
like a shot, he was just on the point of bolting 
in a panic, when a strcre Chcfom from me 
reassured him, and he stood still saluting, 

" * What the you go for sleep ? ' I 

asjied, i You want Manyeina come chop 
you one time ! ' 

li * Master, I no go for sleep/ 
14 Suppressing a strong desire to kick him 
for a liar, I merely said : 

14 1 Then go wake Momo one time, go 
catch him gun first, and no make row ; if 

them gun go off ' and I held up my 

revolver to let him know what he might 
expect if he brought the Arabs down on 
us. Climbing up on the sun-deck, he 
handed me down Momo's gun, and 
then, after five minutes' hard punch- 
ing, succeeded in waking him, just 
managing to prevent his going over* 
board in a senseless panic. 

"Giving them back their guns, I 
let them resume their watch ; but, oh ! 
it was weary work keeping those men 
awake, Did I leave them for five 
minutes down would go their heads, 
and no amount of threats of present 
danger or punishment to come pro- 
duced any effect. The moon was sink- 
ing towards the west ; in less than two 
hours it would be pitch dark, after 
which I would have to keep watch 
myself as well as the Houssas. There 
was evidently no means of keeping 
Bacolli and Momo awake till mid- 
night ; it was clear they had not been 
sleeping during the day as they should 
have done. 1 dared not go to sleep and 
trust to their promises of keeping 
awake ; and if I did not get some sleep 
now, 1 should have hard work to keep 
myself awake during the long five 
hours of darkness between set of moon 
and rise of £un, when I should have 
to strain all my senses to the utmost. Per- 
haps Isaac and Salacco would be better ; 
they had now had two hours' deep, and 
could surely keep awake till moondowu, 
when they could call me, and I would 
relieve them with Momo and Bacolli. 

4,1 Momo, you go one time catch Isaac 
and Salacco — you no good, to-morrow you 
go catch plenty chicot.' 

11 For the first time that night Momo 
moved with something like energy, but it 
was some time before he succeeded in rous- 


liorc I tuld 



them I had shortened the watches to two 
hours and promised rewards if they kept 
awake, and dire punishments if they went 
to sleep. Sending Isaac, a big, hulking 
Fantee, 6 ft. 2 in., and broad in proportion, 
up to the sun -deck, I stationed Salacco by 
the anchor, and lay wearily down under 
the mosquito net to try and snatch a little 

41 Isaac being on the rail-deck overhead, 
was, of course, out of my sight, I could 
only judge that he was awake by the uneasy 
shuffling of his feet, and the low grinding 
of hi* gunstock on the deck, Sonic twenty 
minutes passed^and then I suddenly started 
out of a restless doze, and looked through 
the mosquito curtain at Salacco, As 1 
gazed he slowly folded hi* arms round his 
gun and sank into a squatting position, the 
rifle standing upright between his anus and 
knees. Instantly I jumped a-horc. and, as 
he had not had time to get into a sound 
sleep, I soon roused him 

" * What for you gc 
sleep ? ' I demanded, an- 
grily ; 'you want Man- 
yema come chop you 
one time ? ' 

4i * Master, me no 

" * You no sleep ! 
You no see me come 
till I catch you/ 

11 i Master, ear no 
sleep. Manyema 
c o m e, m e 
hear him, me 
shoot one 

M ( Shoot 
one time be 
hanged ! I no 
want you 
shoot, you 
tajep awake ; 
if you see 
Manyera a, 
you tell me.' 

** The moon 
Was now get- 
ting low, and 
casting long 
s h a d o w s 
across the stream, Isaac, at any rate, 
appeared to be awake, so I again crawled 
under the mosquito net. I dozed, half 
asleep, half awake, for some time, till at" 
last I felt as if i euuid not keep my eves 

open any longer ; not even to save nty 
life. With a terrible effort I raised my- 
self to have a last look at the sentries, 
and black rage swept over me as I again 
saw Salacco squatted down round his gun, 
with his head between his knees. Picking 
up a hippo-hide chicot, I went ashore and 
walked up to him* 

11 * Salacco I T No answer. Holding the 
muzzle of his gun so that the shot would 
fly clear if it went off, I raised the chicot, 
and gave him a cut across the shoulders. 
A white man would instantly have jumped 
up with a yell ; but when a nigger gets 
properly to sleep you can almost cut steaks 
out of him before waking him. It took 
several seconds for the smart of the blow 
to penetrate sufficiently into Salacco's thick 
hide to wake him ; and then, thinking the 
Manyema had got hold of him, and were 
beginning to slice him up for the pot, he 
jumped up s let go his gun, and rushed off 

I iOON KULb|£t> HIM lir." 

as if Old Nick was after hi in, never stop- 
ping till he was quite close to the bush 
some 300 yards off Had the Arabs sprung 
out of t ' ie ^fiW r j i ^^ft J ^|ii*i killed him there 

a,,d tlMWF Wfi*.ff ,ouU ■ "'" 




instant have felt sorry. It would have 
ended the in i scry of that awful night, aiul 
1 shuddered at the thought of the long 
hours I -hould have t<» watch and listen in 
the dark, from moonset to dawn, feverish 
and deadly sick as I then felt. Could 
inward tunes have blasted, what a fate 
would have been in store for those four 
Houssas, not one of whom could be trusted 
to keep awake for half an hour while the 
moonlight lasted! How I should have gone 
for those Arabs had they attacked us then ! 
What a relief it would have been to have 
emptied my six-shooter into half a dozen 
Manyema. As it was, there was nothing 
for it but to suppress my pent-up wrath 
as best I could ; though between sick- 
ness and rage my head felt as if it would 
burst. Salacco, finding no yelling cannibals 
at his heels, stopped in the deep shadow 
of the forest verge* and looked back. Seeing 

no danger, he slowly returned, rubbing his 
shoulders where the chicot had struck him, 
and sorely puzzled as to the cause of the 
pain, not having seen the lash in my band, 

O master, I die / he began as he 


Die, be /I exclaimed. 

'That's what make you die,* shaking 
the chicot at him, * To-morrow 
you pkntv die if you sleep like 

ut Me no 
sleep ; Man- 
yema come, 
ine wake 
one time.** 
" l O n e 
time Lo blazes I Man- 
yema come chop you 
one lime, you go for 
wake in-ide Manyema 
belly, you no look for 
catch Mahommed's 
houris there ! ' 

ki ■ Master, I make 
good watch now.' 

41 Turning towards the 
launch, I noticed Isaac 
standing up on the suu- 
deck, his legs apart, and 
his head resting on his 
hands over the muzzle 
of hi> gun. 'How the 
deuce can I wake that 
brute without an acci- 
dent/ I wondered, as 1 
clambered on board. A 
kind providence solved 
the problem for me. As I stepped on the gun- 
wale of the launch and grasped the coaming 
of the sun-deck, she rocked slightly, Isaac's 
balance was destroyed, stiff as a log he fell 
over, and dropped head first into the deep 
water on the off side. I had just time to 
grab his rifle before he fell. The splash 
sounded awful. ( Great Scott ! if the Arabs 
are watching us T they will get a pretty good 
idea of what is going on, and come for us 
right away ! * I thought, and hung on 
where I was, listening intently, and straining 
my eyes all round ; but nothing could I see, 
and nothing hear, save the roar of the falls, 
the humming of insects, and the sputterings 
and flashings of Isaac as Salacco helped 
him out of the water. Luckily he had 
swallowed too much mud to be able to yell 
when he game to the surface. 


4 o 


u After this I gave it up. Mounting the 
sun-deck I told one of the men to hand me 
up a camp stool, and sat down to do sentry 
myself. The moon was Hearing the tups of 
the forest trees, and the dark shadows were 
gradually stretching farther and farther 
across the water. The Arab settlement 
across the river would soon be wrapped in 
the black robe* of utter darkness, and then 
our only safety lay in listening, sheer 
listening' The launch was moored just 
below a long reef of rocks which stretched a 
third of the distance across the river, and 
protected her from the fierce swirl of the 
rapids. The water being low, these rocks 
were quite dry, and I took particular notice 
of the outer extremity of the reef as long as 
there was any light* When the moon sank 
behind the dark forest wall, I left the boat 
and felt my way carefully along to the far 
end of the reef, to see if it was possible for 
canoes to approach its upper side* Satisfied 
on this point, I returned to my post. 

11 Minutes crawled 
into long hours, 
clouds came up over- 
head and hid the 
stars, several times 
1 started up in false 
alarm as I thought I 
heard the grating of 
a canoe against the 
rocky shore, the 
splashing of a paddle, 
or a rustle among 
the grass on the 
bank. The struggle 
against sleep was 

fearful. How I did envy those niggefs 
doubled up over their guns, for I let them 
sleep on, thinking it safer than the noise 
I should make continually waking them. 
It was terribly dark — not a star was visible. 
How long those hours did seem ! At last 
the clouds began to break, the buzz of tropic 
insect life became hushed, and only the 
never-ending diapason of the cataract 
sounded through the silence that precedes 
the dawn, 

a \y C3Lr y anc j ^t ifT, I clambered ashore, 
felt my way silently along the reef of rock, 
till I stood at the far end, straining eyes and 
ears to their utmost. Round the end of the 
reef the rapid tore and whirled with an 
eddying rush that beat up the water into 
white foam, It made too much noise for 
me just then, so I moved slowly back along 
t e upper edge of the reef till 1 came to a 
small hollow in the rock, into which the 
wavelets beat over a low ledge of smooth 
stone. The rapid surged against the reef 

with considerable 
force, throwing up 
debris of all sorts. 
As I paused by this 


** „.„ r t — 

w , JGi 



^Original from 



rocky hollow/' 1 the swirl of waters dashed up 
a small pebble, which spun into it* I stooped 
to see what it was, and picked up this herald 
of the dawn ; for; as I again raised myself 
and looked towards the east, over the forest- 
clothed island of W ana Kukuru broke the 
first signs of the welcome day. 

:,: :,: ?,; ^ 

" No, we were not attacked. As soon as 
I was sure that the dawn was breaking I 
kicked up the men and let down the canvas 
curtains of the launch, to hide her warlike 
appearance. If a nigger sleeps soundly at 
night, he rises with the dawn, and, as soon 
as I had seen them all (except the sentries) 
squatted round fires cooking their breakfast, 
I lay down and slept till the chief sent for 
me. Tippoo sent a message over early in 
the morning, and matters were arranged 
somehow. I have no doubt that, had a 
row occurred, the Arabs would have 

* Tbew; hollows are very curious, some of them 
being perfect circles in shiipe* They are formed by *i 
lar^e piece of stone getting one of \\s corners caught 
in a small hole. Being too heavy to be lifted out by 
the current, it forms a sort 0/ whirlpool, which works 
it round and round like a large drill till it wears a 
deep hollow. Some of these hollows are over two 
feet in diameter. How many ages they must have 
uken to form 3 

attacked Yambuya camp next. I was 
devoutly thankful things passed off as they 
did. Could I have done anything to save 
the white men at the Aruwimi camp ? 
Well, not much. It 1* certain as fate the 
chief would have been cut to pieces before 
he could have fought his way to the steamer, 
he had about three-quarters of a mile to 
go, and his white face would have been a 
mark for every Arab gun. Some of the 
I [ 1 ujssas might have escaped, being black and 
dressed like the Arabs, The lower Aruwimi 
was then still free from Tippoo's raiders, 
and, had I succeeded in reaching its mouth 
with men enough to work the launch, J 
should certainly have tried to reach the 
camp by night. But there were about 800 
loads in that camp. I could only carry 
some 200 in the launch , and Barttelot was 
the sort of man who would have let him- 
wlf be cut up hit by hit like a tarantula, 
before he would have deserted his post. 

11 That is the history of that pebble. I 
have often wondered since what Stanley V 
feelings would have been* had he known in 
the midst of the dark forest that a disaster 
to his rear column, worse even than the 
fate that overtook it, hung for sixteen hours 
in the balance, between an Arab's ambition 
and a Belgian subaltern's pride." 

by Google 

Original from 

Portraits of Celebrities at different times of their Lives. 


Born 1834. 

^^yT|K + SANTLEY was born at Liver- 
1 M pool, and received a thorough 
\ ! musical training in England and 
C under Gaetano Nava in Milan. 

At twenty -three he appeared at St. Martini 

/■Vflm flj 

AQti. 24, 


Hall as Aaam in the "Creation, 1 ' From 
that time to the present few figures have 
been so familiar and so popular as Mr. 
San t ley's. He is acknowledged to be 
the finest English baritone singer of the 
day, and the master not only of a voice of 
rare power and beauty, but of a taste and 
feeling almost rarer, Mr, Santley is also 
an enthusiastic amateur painter, He married 
a granddaughter of Charles Kemblc, and 
one of his daughters has inherited his gifts 
and followed his profession. 

ifuwi ai'aurk/. tfj 

AGE 35. 

t tt . d D, 1/va. titff. 

from a Phyio. fl|£ f I Q I N Qlk£kkJJ-jl ■ i hAV* 


EttioUd r*y. 



front a] 

AfJK 3i + [Phyti^raph 

From a Fkvia. by] ACt j£ \jUnuhn. Stare J. Co* 


daughter of Robert Brough (who 
died at the early age of thirty - 
tiro), the well-known journalist 
and dramatic author ; her mother (who is 
still alive) being the niece of Miss Romer, 
the celebrated vocalist. Miss Brough was 
born in Paris, and made her first appear- 
ance in London on the stage of the St. 
James's, on October 15, 1870,111 Sutherland 
Edwards' adaptation of '* Fernanda" in 
which she played the title r&le. After 
playing on tour, she appeared as Clara 
Douglas in Mr. and Mrs. Bane roll's cele- 

brated revival of 4i Money." Miss Brough 
then went to the Gaietv, and was afterwards 
engaged by Mr. Charles Wyndham. Among 
Miss Brought most conspicuous successes 
were Fuchsia Leach in u Moths," and her 
creation of Petrella in the Spanish play of 

" The Woman and the Law/* for the ex- 
cellence of which performance she was 
presented by Sen or Leopoldo Casa-y-Mano, 
the author of the novel and original play, 
with his portrait t accompanied by a most 
complimentary letter. Miss Brough is now 
playing J/rj. Egerion Bomptis in Mr 
Pinero's new play, *'The Times." 







■ at 

From a fAnfa, Ap] j^ue 19, L L* f/rnjf, /'«■!> 

Born 1849. 

J ^R. DAVID EVANS was born at 
^ Llantrissant, Glamorganshire, and 
is the first Welshman who has 
become Lord Mayor for nearly a 
ccnturv. I'c is sole partner of the firm of 
Messrs- Evans & Sons, warehousemen, of 
Wat ling-street, in which he already occupied 
a leading position at the age at which our 
first portrait represents him. At twenty- 

Digitized by QjOOglC 

t'vcm a I^olo.ttjf AGE a"ji. [L\trutttn Sirrm. t'o- 

Jt'ntftt a I'h-uio, b*j] 

Atit 4*:. 

[Lomdon Htcrtv. Ho. 

five, the age of our second portrait, he was 
elected to a seat in the Court of Common 
Council — the beginning of a distinguished 
career in the public service, At thirty-five, 
the age of our third portrait, lie was returned 
a* Alderman, and the next year was elected 
without opposition to the position of Sheriff 
of London and Middlesex, He resides at 
Ewell Grove, a fine old mansion, and was, 
until last year, master of the Surrey Farmers' 
staghounds, The Lord Mayor is married, 
and has ^lijWJf^PfilSSl 1 ^ children. 




atic criticisms in The Daily Tele- 
graph are among the bust-known 
and most powerful of the day, 
and who is the author of many popular 
books and plays, is the son of the Rev, 
William Scott, vicar of St. Olave, Old 
Jewry t was born at Christ Church Parson- 
age, Hoxton, and educated at Marlborough 
College, He was appointed to a clerkship 
in the War Office, 1 860, and retired on a 
pension in 1879, when he joined the editorial 
staff of The Daily Telegraph. 

Digitized by C-OOQ I C 

*-■«*■ ^t)riginal*ffbmi 

[ Wultry. 

4 6 


^\tf»V 41, 


/Yn.n fl rhnto by] AdK 42, 


Born [S21. 

HE Kt< Hon. 
Sir James 
Hannen t the 
J*€U£ffi eldest son of 
Sir. James Hannen, 
merchant, was born at 
Ki ngswood, Surrey, 
and educated at St. 
Paul's School, and at 
the University of 
Heidelberg, He was 
called to the bar at the 
age of twenty -six. At 
forty ~ seven he was 

[ H J QmL 

Filtui 4 / ki4a. by] 

AGE f -. 

[Store* <V 

Frvtn « j^hctb. W\ AGE J&. J$ifrnt> d; Vo , hwhrnvtid. 

made a puisne judge of 
the Queen's Bench, and 
received the honour of 
knighthood. In 1872 
he was appointed judge 
of the Court of Probate 
and Divorce, Lord 
Hunnen was the head 
of the Commission of 
Judges appointed to 
investigate the charges 
brought against the 
Irish party by The 

For permission to use 
these portraits we are 
indebt ed to the k indness 
of Sir James Hannen. 

by Google 

Original from 



Leys, whom he assisted in painting 
several large pictures, he became 
a Member of the Academy of Fine 
Arts at Amsterdam. At the age 
of our third portrait, he received 
letters of denization from the 
Queen of England, having resolved 
to settle permanently in this coun- 
trv. Three years later he was 

frtJin ■> /'q i^iii? | 

ACE [6, 

m v I 'hula bjp] Ar,E 27. f- Dufyntt, Auvt-n 


Burn 1836. 

TADEMA \v;is born at 
SE 11 Dronryp, in Kriesland, 
^M atui at sixteen was study- 
ing art at the Royal Academy "of 
Antwerp, where he painted "the 
portrait of himself which forms the 
first of our series, At twenty -seven, 
after placing himself with Baron 

Diqilized by v_iOO 

[fry AihMrJ/. 

AOE 37. 
Fntm rt r&ntit. hit Fftittdlt d Jtf«r»A«l/, 

elected A. R.A. l and in iflyq R.A, He has 
been twice married ; his present wife, the 
youngest daughter of Dr. Epps, whose 
cocoa is of world-wide fame, being herself an 
accomplished artist, and a regular contributor 
to the Royal Academy and other leading 


HE corporal sat astride a cane- 
bottomed chair in front of the 
gendarme quarters at Pierre- 
buffiere and smoked his pipe ; 
slowly the smoke curled up- 
wards in regular lines, form- 
ing circles which gradually expanded, qui- 
vered, and finally vanished in the warm air 
of this July evening. 

Martial Tharaud had seen many similar 
circles of smoke act in just the same way 
above the cannon's mouth. 

He was now taking life easily in his little 
garden, the head of a family, with a cor- 
pora l T s stripes on his .sleeve, and wished for 
nothing better — not even to become ser- 
geant, because then he would probably haw- 
to go to Eymoutiers, Saint Leonard, or 
Limoges. He was fond of his little corner 
at Pierrebuffiere, fond of those roses which 
he had grafted himself , and fond of that 
creeping plant which ran along the white 
walls of the house and hung in wreaths 
around the tin tricolour flag suspended over 
the door. 

As the corporal smoked he watched some 
boys who, at a short distance from him, 

Digitized by W 

were piaying upon a hillock at the game of 
pique-rrimmr, in which they threw long 
pointed pieces ot iron into the ground, as 
though throwing at a target. Occasionally 
he cried warningly to them: "Take care, 
there, youngsters ; mind you don't run them 
into your feet ! " 

Then he turned round and looked over 
his shoulder through the open window at 
a pretty, dark-complexioned woman, still 
young, who was bustling about the kitchen 
where the pots and pans shone like silver ; 
he smiled at her and said as he puffed away : 
" They arc having a game, the little 
rascals ! M 

Then the woman, with bare arms — nice 
white arms, half covered with flour — came 
to the window-si 1L put her jolly, energetic- 
looking face (red with the heat of the stove) 
out of the window and looked towards the 
boys, who were excitedly throwing their 
pieces of iron at the mark. 

il Go along ! there's no danger ! Be- 
sides, it makes them skilful and brave ■ n 

44 And gives them an appetite for your 
i la thrifts , Catissou ! M 

The claJQuUs — a Limousin dish as solid 




as the thick cabbage soup of the country 
districts — was already baking in the oven, 
with its black cherries stuck in the flour like 
bricks in mortar. 

"Is the clafoutis cooking all right?' 1 
asked the corporal. 

And Catissou shrugged her shoulders as 
if to say : " Are you foolish ? Is your 
housekeeper in the habit of neglecting her 
pastry ? ,T 


" A good woman/- said Martial Tharaud to 
us a moment afterwards as we passed htm 
with a nod. 

He was in the humour for a gossip, 

M Yes, yes M (he became loquacious when 
speaking of Catissou), " she's a good woman ; 
and a sturdy woman, too. To see her make 
the kettle boil and wash the children — we 
have three, all boys ; see them over there ? 
— nobody would believe she had been on 
show at the fairs I And yet it's true enough ! 
Oh, it*s quite a story ! Til tell you all 
about it, 

14 It is about ten years ago— I had just left 
the chasseurs and entered the gendarmerie 
at Limoges, and that suited mc, because I 
belong 10 that part. The adjutant told us 
one morning that there was a splendid 
capture to be made, A worthy old man 
named Coussac, a foreman builder, had 
been murdered in his 
own house at Mont- 
mailler, and there was 
no clue to the identity 
of the assassin. That 
was in September. We 
had to search the high- 
ways and byways ; and 
the adjutant, M. Boudet 
(he's captain now), told 
the sergeant, the 
corporals, and the men 
to redouble their 
vigilance and keep their 
eyes open ; and if we 
met any suspicious- 
looking persons under 
the chestnut trees or 
along the highroads we 
were to seize them 
without hesitation and 
haui them up before 
the authorities. 

u Information had 
been sent all over the 
district, and also to 
Chateauneuf, Ambazac, 
everywhere, even to 

Rellac. In a ivord, the whole department 
was on the alert 

"Now, it ? s all very fine to tell you to 
arrest all suspicious-looking individuals, but 
you must not always judge by appearances. 
There are many worthy people who have 
very evil -looking faces. Why, I knew a 
man whose looks would have brou^!;t him 
to the guillotine or the galleys ; yet he was 
a man who might have taken a prize for 
upright conduct I It's true enough ! He 
gave away all he had to the poor— a perfect 
saint, my word on it ! And there are others 
who look like saints, but who ought to have 
the handcuffs put on at once. 

" Still, we were told to arrest them ; and 
so we did. We ran in some of those natives 
of Lorraine who come to Sauviat and Saint- 
Yrieix to buy china-ware, you know ; we 
took up hawkers, old men, yellow- looking 
beggars — as yellow as their bags ; and we 
even ran in some silly people who were 
roaming about without any knowledge of 
the place. But not one of them was capable 

by Google 

■ijKf took up HAvQfbuinal from 



of giving that fillip to old Coussac, So the 
time went on, and wo could not lay hands 
on the Montmailltr murderer, 

u And it wasn't an easy thing at all to 
find out who had killed the old foreman 
buPder. We had scarcely any clue, and 
we did not know how to set to work. 

r * Well ! one day I was at the gendarme 
quarters, about to curry-comb my horse, 
when a handsome young woman, with eyes 
like sloes and lips as red as cherries, came 
up to me and said : * Well ! have you any 
news of the murderer after all this time? 
I am the daughter of Leonard Coussac ! T T1 

** Tt made inc start when I heard that, I 
tell you ! She spoke so energetically, and 
her eyes flashed so 
angrily, that I felt as 
though I ought to be 
ashamed of myself for 
not having taken a grip 
of the collar of that 
scoundrel who had killed 
the young woman's 
father. Then I tried to 
clear myself by explain- 
ing that it was not 
exactly our fault, that 
we had very little in- 
formation about the 
murdereTj and so on ; but 
she looked at me straight 
in the eyes in such a 
manner that 1 
f e 1 1 I w a s 
making a mess 
of it. 

"' Now, look 
here, miss,' I 
said suddenly, 
stopping in the 
midst of my 
excuses, 'I 

would will- 
ingly risk an 

arm or a leg, if necessary, to catch that 
scoundrel ! ' And I meant it, too, And 
it wasn't exactly what you call— er — pro- 
fessional duty which made me say it. It 
was those confounded black eyes which 
seemed all on fire. k But, vou see, we want 
a clue ! ' 

il i A clue ? • Then she shrugged her 
shoulders. * What about the hand?' she 
a^ked. l Isn't that a clue?' 

411 The hand? What hand ? ' 

i4 Then Catherine Coussac — her name 
was Catherine, Catissou in our country 
dialect— told me the story of the crime. 


a story which, I confess, made my blood 
run cold. 


"It was one September evening when 
poor old Coussac was killed , and it was as 
warm as a summer day. In his house he 
had the mone}' which Mr* Sabourdy, the 
contractor he worked for, had left with him 
before starting for Gueret. He had about 
ten thousand francs besides that, for he had 
to pay the men and meet two bills which 
would be due in two or three days. It was 
Saturday. After he had paid the men T the 
foreman builder returned home, pleased, 
and with a good appetite, He ate his 

cabbage soup 
and some dump- 
lings, and after 
the meal his 
mother went up- 
stairs to rest on 
the bed, as she 
was rather tired, 
while old 
Coussac and his 
daughter Catis* 
sou remained in 
the downstairs 
room, sitting 
near the chest 
where the 
money was. He 
was reading 
the Almanack 
Limousin which 
had just come 
out, and she was 
knitting a 
woollen stock- 

11 You must 
understand that 
Coussac's rooms 
were at the back 
of the house, overlooking the garden. 
The one on the ground floor, in which 
Coussac and his daughter were then 
sitting, had a window about five feet 
from the ground, with inside shutters 
which were usually closed in the evening ; 
but that evening the window had been left 
slightly open, because the old man felt 
rather warm. lie was reading by the light 
of a shaded lamp, and Catissou heard him 
turn over the pages of the Almanarh at 
regular intervals. She has often told me 
that, as she was working away mechanically, 
the tickQlii&iRfikfreiSlock, and the rustle of 




the paper as the leaves were regularly 
turned over, made her feel drowsy. 

"Suddenly she lifted her head from her 
work with a yawn to see if it wasn't time 
to go to bed, and she saw— she thought 
at first that she was mistaken or dreaming — 
she saw between the shutters a hand, a big 
hand, a thick, wide hand with something 
terrifying about it T something which 
Catissou noticed at once — the four fingers 
were almost as thick as the thumb, and 
were all the same size, and all as long as 
one .another, just as if they had been cut 
nff at a certain point. But they had not 
been cut off, for they had nails ; only they 
all finished in a line. This frightful hand, 
with the spatulated fingers— that's what 
Dr. Boutsilloux called them — glided along 
the shutters like a great spider, and it was 
evidently trying to push back the shutters 
without making a noise ; it remained there 
almost motionless as Catissou looked up, as 
though the man to whom it belonged 
guessed that she was looking at it. 

M For a moment Catherine thought that 
her eyes had been affected by the light of 
the lamp, causing her to see black and red 
spots as you do when you look at the sun. 
She opened them wide, and saw the hand 
gliding over the woodwork nearer and 
nearer. Catissou could no longer doubt 
the reality of what she saw, and tried to 
cry out ; but she seemed choked, as if the 
hand were strangling her> and she could 
not utter a sound, 

M She jumped up, stretched her arm lout 


towards Co up sac, 
and shook him by 
the sleeve, point- 
ing to the terrible 
hand at the win- 
dow. But, at the 
very moment 
when old Cous- 
sac turned and 
perceived the 
hand, the shutter 
was pushed vio- 
lently back and 
the window 
opened very 
quickly, which 
caused the door 
of the room to 
open, admitting 
a draught of air 
which blew out 
the lamp and left 
Catherine and 
her father in the dark, 

" Then there was the noise of a heavy 
body jumping into the room, and Coussac 
endeavoured to find a knife in the draweT of 
the table on which he was reading — a knife 
to defend himself and, above all, Catissou 
and Mr* Sabourdy's money ; but, before he 
could open the drawer, he was seized by 
the throat, and felt something cold enter 
his body under the neck near the heart. 
Catissou could see nothing, but she guessed 
what was taking place, and she uttered a 
scream. Bang ! A blow from a fist like a 
hammer on her head, and she fell senseless. 
The man must have had cat's eyes ; he 
could see everything, and took good aim. 
If Catissou was not killed by the knife, it 
was because it had broken off short ; still 
the fist was enough for the man's purpose 
in her case. 

"How long the poor girl remained in- 
sensible, she could not say ; but when she 
came to herself she was still in the lower 
room, and her grandmother in her night- 
dress, with a face as white as a sheet, was 
trying to restore poor old Leonard, who 
was dying, 

" Of course you can guess that the chest 
had been broken open, and the thousand- 
franc notes stolen. 

tl What an awful night that was ! It will 
be many a long day before it is forgotten in 
the Montmailler suburb. The neighbours 
were called up, the garden was searched, a 
guard put round the houses and the houses 
searched from top to bottom, Thev found 





the imprints of iron -tipped boots in the 
flower-beds ; instructions were given that 
these marks should not be touched, and the 
size was carefully measured. Every place 
round about was searched, but to no pur- 
pose, And, in the meantime, Coussac was 
dying, and his mother, half crazy with grief 
and rage, was saying what she would do if 
she only got hold of the assassin, 

u As for Catherine, who was half mad 
too, the sight of that terrible hand, with 
the four fingers of the same length, gliding, 
gliding over the oaken shutter like a field- 
spider or a crab-fish, was continually before 
her eyes. 

u You can guess that everything that could 
be done was done to find the wretch who had 
^ent the worthy man to * Louyat,' that's 
what they call the cemetery at Limoges ; 
the parson told me that the name comes 
from 'Alleluia.' Yes, everything possible 
was done, but I say again there was no 
clue ! Of course, there was the hand, as 
Catissou told me at the barracks' ; but no* 
body knew a man w T ith a hand like that in 
the whole of that part of the country— he 
would soon have been noticed. They 
questioned the men who worked with old 
Coussac, one after another. No, they did 
not know anyone with such a fist ; and you 
could not suspect any of them. They were 
all decent fellows ; they liked to wet their 
whistles a bit, but that isn't a crime, Be- 
sides, none of them knew that Mr. 
Sabourdy had left other money than the 
wages with Coussac. Who, then, could the 
rascal be who had such a hand as Catissou 
had seen ? 

"One day a journeyman butcher came 
and told us that he well remembered one 
day having a quarrel with a big, Wil- 
li Hiking tVllow, who had pulled out a knife; 
and the butcher had noticed, as he had 
pulled out this Nontron knife from his 
pocket, that this fellow had a very peculiar 
hand, a big, hairy hand with all the fingers 
of the same size ! Now, the knife that had 
killed Leonard Coussac was a Nontron 
knife. But the butcher knew nothing 
about this man and nobody else had seen 
the fellow at Limoges, so we could only be- 
lieve that the butcher was humbugging us. 
And still the hunt went on, but it was no 
good ; and I was in a rare state about it, I 
was, for I had said to Catissou, looking her 
full in the face: * Come, Miss Catissou, 
answer me plainly ; what would you give 
to the one who brought your father's mur- 
derer to you with a rope round hh neck > 1 

and she had not answered in words, but had 
become quite pale, and you should have 
seen her eyes, her beautiful black eyes ! 
They were full of tears, and they promised 
— something ! 

"Still, even that could not help me to 
find the wretch. 

fl At last, seeing that not one of the I2th ; 
from the colonel to the last gendarme, could 
put his hand upon the fellow, Catherine 
said : * Very well ; ii you can't find him. I 
will J 1 

i; She left her situation as dressmaker, and 
asked the police authorities for permission 
to take part in the fairs. That surprised us 
all ; but it surprised me especially, when in 
every place where there was any entertain- 
ment on, we saw a large canvas poster with 
a portrait of Catherine Coussac, dressed in 

by Google 




pink tights, with a red velvet jacket, short 
shirt, and copper fish-scales ; and above this 
picture were the words, in big letters, 
Woman Torpedo Fish. 

44 What a name! It was quite strange 
enough for Catherine to mix up with 
mountebanks at all — although they are as 
good as other people, ay, and even better 
than a good many other people we meet. 
Still, it was surprising enough for her to 
become a strolling player, or such like ; but 
Woman Torpedo Fish, that beat all ! Of 
course you know that the torpedo is a fish 
which gives you an electric shock if you 
touch it — a fish which seems to have an 
electric machine in its body. Well, by 
some electrical arrangement, when you 
touched Catherine Coussac's hand you re- 
ceived an electric shock." 

44 It was not necessary for me to touch her 
to be electrified ; I only had to look at her. 
Look at her now ; she is twenty-eight and 
a little stouter, but she's still pretty. Well, 
ten years ago, when she used to wear that 
lace cap on her black hair — that lace cap 
which the silly women have thrown aside 
for hats like the ladies wear — well, very few 
people who passed her went on their way 
without looking back at her ! Such a figure 
she had ! and such a complexion ! There 
were some handsome girls in Limoges, but 
Catherine was the handsomest, though I say 
it as shouldn't. 

44 Didn't she draw the people to the 
booth ! She didn't want a big band like 
the Corvi Circus, nor a lot of gag like the 
troupe which plays the Tour de Nesle. Not 
a bit of it ; she just showed herself ; people 
said, 4 1 say, that's a pretty girl ! ' and they 
went hi. 


44 One day, at Magnac Laval — it was 
Shrove Tuesday — I went in with the other 
people to see the Woman Torpedo Fish. 
There she was on a little stage, and old 
Mrs. Coussac, Leonard's mother, sat below, 
squatting like a witch, and frowning at 
everyone who came in, as though she would 
like to throw a spell upon them. Since the 
murder of her son, she had become sullen, 
and she scarcely said anything but 4 So they 
won't take him to the guillotine, the rascal 
who killed my son ! ' 

44 1 stepped forward. Catherine recog- 
nised me, and, as I stopped in front of her, 
and thought how well the costume suited 
her, she smiled, and said to me in a signifi- 
cant tone : 4 Oh, it is you ; but it isn't 

your hand I am looking for.' And her black 
eyes blazed again, with a look of madness 

44 Then I understood what the brave girl 
was doing. Then I knew why she was going 
all over the country, disguised as a mounte- 
bank. The recollection of that frightful 
hand was always present, and she held out 
her own white little hand — as soft as satin, 
but as strong as a vice — to everyone, hop- 
ing in this way to recognise the hand with 
the fingers all of the same size. 

44 That was her own idea ! That was the 
only clue, but it would be sufficient for her, 
she thought. It was not an easy task to 
find that fellow — almost as bad as looking 
for a needle in a haystack. And yet there 
is always a chance that a murderer will 
come and prowl round the scene of his 
crime. Blood seems to attract like a mag- 
net, that's what / think. Of course, the 
man had fled from Limoges after the crime, 
and might still be far away, but he would 
come back and have a look at Montmailler 
at some time or other ; so the Woman 
Torpedo Fish had the chances in her 
favour that she would see him again and 
recognise that hand — that hand which 
seemed to haunt her to such an extent 
that she has told me that she often dreamt 
it was round her neck, strangling her. 

44 In this way Catherine went about from 
place to place with old Mrs. Coussac. T 1 e 
electric woman's van went wherever it 
could, drawn by an old horse which had 
served in the gendarmerie. From fair to 
fair they dragged along, the mother and 
the daughter, and they must Lave covered 
miles enough to make a journey round the 
world. They saw Auvergne, Bordeaux, 
Angouleme, Tours, and right on to Orleans 
— and a good many other place?, too, in the 
south. But it was in the department of 
Haute-Vienne that they felt most confi- 
dent of success. They said to each other : 
4 That is he did it, and that is 
where he will be taken ! ' A supersti- 
tious idea, perhaps, but you can't help 
such things. 

44 Women soon get at the bottom of 
things, I tell you. They are as artful as 
can be. 

44 Well, one day — I remember it as if it 
was yesterday, it was the 22nd of May and 
a Tuesday also — the booths were making 
no end of a row upon the Place Royale — 
Place de la Republique. There were round- 
abouts, waxworks, athletic sports, perform-' 

ing ^i&s^kfflffi' ^ thh * 



you could think of, including, of course, 
the Woman Torpedo EYsA. 

44 Catherine, fresh as a daisy, walked about 
on the platform outside, pointing to the 
picture of herself and crying out : 4 Walk up, 
walk up, ladies and gentlemen ! Just about 
to beginj ' while poor old Widow Coussac, 
looking a hundred years old, as yellow as a 
guinea, as thin as a rake, and coughing in a 
way that made your heart ache, glared 
around at the people. 

14 Walk up, walk up, walk up ! " 
44 1 walked up like the other people, 
except that, as I went in, 1 said 4 Good 
morning, miss,' to Catissou. 

44 4 Good morning, gendarme,' she 

44 She knew my name perfectly well, but 
she only gave me my title. It seemed to 
ine that it was as good as saying : 4 Although 
you are a gendarme, you don't know how 
to nab people who murder poor old men, do 
you ? ' and, besides, she had a right to call 
me 4 gendarme,' because I was in uniform. 

44 Well, there I was inside. There were 
about twenty persons in the booth, men 
and women ; and while Catissou smiled at 
them, old Mrs. Coussac, squatting in a 
corner, glared at them as usual. 

44 1 can see it all now, just as if I was 
there. Catissou, standing on the stage with 
a red curtain for the background, with 
spangles in her hair, a rose in her breast, 
and, as a contrast to all this red, a pair of 
plump, white arms, and pretty shoulders, 
and a head — well, a head pretty enough to 
turn the heads of all the men who saw her. 
The sun shone through the canvas upon 
Catissou, making the imitation fish-scales, 
which she had sewn upon her garments, 
shine like diamonds. 

44 There she was, explaining to the audi- 
ence what sort of a thing this electric fish 
is, where it lives, how the Arabs call it 
4 Thunder/ and what a shock it gives you, 
as if you had been struck by lightning ; and 
how — but there, it's all done with now, and 
very likely Catissou herself has forgotten 
it, although she has said it so many times. 
But she had it at her fingers' ciids at that 
time, and said it right off as pat as a 
lawyer ; and the audience sat with their 
mouths wide open taking it all in, and 
devouring Catissou with their eyes, which 
proves that they had good taste. 

44 After that, she held out her hand as 
usual, and said to them : 4 Walk up and 
shake hands and feel the electric shock ! 
Don't be afraid ; it won't hurt you ! ' All 

hands were held out to touch Catissou's 
dainty little hand ; some laughed at the 
sensation, others shook their hands and 
looked rather angry. 

44 1 sat there, looking on and feeling just 
a little jealous at all those people mauling 
Catherine's pretty hand, when all at once 
I saw her go as pale as death, and spring 
upon one of the hands like a dog at a piece 
of meat. 

44 Right in front of her stood a tall, her- 
culean fellow, with curly red hair showing 
under a fur cap. He wore a starched blue 
blouse over a countryman's jacket, and had 
wide, square shoulders, a protruding lower 
jaw — I was looking at him sideways — and 
temples that hid his eyes from anyone 
looking at him from my position. No 
beard, only a few hairs visible on his white, 
dull face. An evil-looking face it was. 
Catissou was looking him straight in the 
face, and holding his hand — it seemed 
enormous in her small, woman's hand — in 
a frenzied grasp, as if her life depended 
upon it. 

44 A shiverpassed through me, and I said 
to myself: 4 That's the man ! ' 

44 Yes, she held him ; held hfm with all 
her might. And she said to the great 
fellow, who had suddenly turned as pale as 
she had : 

44 Who killed Leonard Coussac ? ' 

44 He started back and tried to free his 
hand from the grasp of the Woman Tor- 
pedo Eish. Ah ! Catissou didn't require 
any electrical arrangement to give that man 
a shock ! He drew back his hand without 
being able to get it out of Catharine's grasp. 
4 Let me go, will you ! ' he said, trying to 
push her away. 4 Are you mad ? ' He turned 
his head this way and that way, his eyes, 
wild with rage and fear, luoking for a way 
of escape. 

44 4 Wretch ! ' cried Catissou, sinking her 
fingers in his flesh as she tried to tighten 
her grasp, 4 it was you who did it — you ! 
you I you ! ' 

44 She shook him as a dog does a rat, and 
he was so stupefied he did not know what 
to do. But he soon recovered himself. 
He got his hand free from Catherine's 
fingers and dealt her a blow with it on the 
shoulder, which made her sink on her 
knees ; then he turned towards the door 
like a wild boar. 

44 The audience was scared and made a 
rush for the door. The man made a bound, 
pushing the people before him, when I, by 
a quick movement, placed myself in front 





of hint. He was a head taller than I was, 
and an evil look appeared on his face as I 
lifted my arm and seized him by the blouse, 

11 * I arrest you in the name of the law ! T 

u His reply was a blow, which would 
have sent me rolling, perhaps, if I had not 
been rendered strong by the presence of 
Catherine, As it was, I took very little 
notice of it; and held him tight, struggling 
with him and dragging him about. I 
wouldn't loose him, you would have had to 
cut my hand off first. And all the time 
\u: was trying t>» *tun me or break my skull 
by hitting me about the head. All at once 
— whizz — a knife sank into my flesh just 
below the neck, in the very same place as 
old Coussac had been struck. I have the 
scar now. Seems to have been the usual 
place for the rascal to strike ! 

11 He reckoned on killing me, but the 
collar of my uniform stopped the blow a bit 
and the blade of the knife — a Nuntron 
knife, with a yellow handle — cut the collar 
clean through and gave me a nick in the 
flesh, that's alh 

J1 1 gripped the wrist of the hand that 
held the knife and held It above my head. 
If it came down again, it would be all up 
with mc — mcj a gendarme I i?o the knife 

was in the air over my 
head like the sword of 
1 )amo — what do you call 
him, Damocles ? — yes, 
Damocles ; and round the 
handle of the knife were 
the four fingers, all the 
same size, whichjiad en- 
abled Catherine Coussac 
to recognise the murderer 
of her father. 

H I suppose the struggle 
did last some little time, 
but it seemed much 
longer tu me, The blood 
was running from my 
wound, and I felt I was 
losing strength. I must 
leave go of the arm, and 

the knife would- , I 

madean effort ; then, just 
in the nick of time, the 
good-for-nothing rascal 
gave a yell — such a yell 
it was ! He gave a jump 
and started backwards as 
if to free himself from 
something, and hestepped 
backwards so quickly that 
he fell over something 
on to the ground, dragging me with 
hi in. He had fallen over old Mrs, Coussac, 
who had actually bitten him in the leg as 
the best way to make him leave go of me. 

M We struggled about on the floor, but 
not for long. Catherine was up and helped 
me by getting the knife away from him, 
and I fastened my right hand on his throat 
and nearly strangled him. Then up came 
Sergeant Bugead and a comrade, attracted 
by the noise, and we soon had the hand- 
cuffs on the fellow, and they took him off 
through the crowd, who, now that he was 
unable to do anything, became very brave 
and wanted to lynch him, 

" It was about time that help came, for [ 
was done up. I felt myself going, and I 
fainted from loss of blood — fainted ! Wasn't 
it silly for a gendarme to faint ? 

*' And as I went off J had a feeling that I 
was being supported by a pair of white 
arms, and above me I fancied 1 could see, 
not the Nontron knife, but Catherine's eyes, 
looking tenderly at me. 

" Well, that's how a good marriage was 
brought about, My wound got well, 
of course, oC^j^rwacbtitonft see me here ; but 




it got well twice as quick 
because Catherine looked 
after it. And when I 
got about again, she said 
plainly : k Look here now ! 
You suit me and I suit 


you. I swear I'll be a good wife to you! 1 
Catherine's marriage was the last pleasure 
old Mrs. Cnussac enjoyed, poor old woman ! 
No ! I make a mistake ; her last piece of 
happiness was hearing that sentence had 
been passed on the murderer of Leonard 

"He turned out to be a bricklayer's 
labourer who had applied to Mr. Sabounly 
for woTk,and had overheard about the money 
being entrusted to old Coussac. His greed 
had been excited, and he had committed 
the murder. He had done it 
quite alone ; no accomplice, 
After the murder lie had gone 
to Paris, then come back to 
Gueret, and then to Limoges; 
all the money gone and on 
the look-out for work. And 
he evidently wasn't particular 
what sort of work, either ! He 
hanllv took the trouble to de- 
fend himself at the trial. He 
seemed to say : ' You've got me. 
So much the worse for me ! * He 
was condemned to death. He 
tried to cheat the executioner 
by knocking his head against 
the wall of his tell. But lie 
didn't succeed, and the execu- 
tioner had him after all. 

u At the trial the judge com- 
plimented me. I don't say that 
for the sake of boasting, but 

by Google 

because it's true. 
But 1 had no need 
nor of anything 
else. I had got 
Catissou, and that 
was enough forme. 
However, on the 
wedding - day, my 
captain's wedding 
gift was a cor- 
poral's stripes ;aud 
I tell you J was 
pleased at that. 
And since then- 
well, if you want 
to see a happy 
man, look at me ! 
u Catissou has had ever so many offers 
from theatrical managers to go on show — 
even from Australia. The newspapers had 
been full of her, and that made the mana- 
gers eager to get Her, But Catissou only 
laughed at it. She's got something else to do 
now. She has to wash the children, pipeclay 
my epaulettes, look after the poultry, and su- 
perintend the house— and she does superin- 
tend the house, too, and the corporal as well ! 
"No, no ! Catissou is not an artiste. But 
if there should ever be a crime committed 
in these parts, and thev can't find the man 
who did it, I wouldn't mind hacking 
Catissou against all the detectives they like 
to employ ! u 


The corporal knocked out the 
ashes of his pipe on his left 
thumb-nail, and was about to fill 
up again, when Catherine Tha- 
raud came to the door, making a 
pretty picture surrounded by the 
creeping plant, with the rays of 
the setting sun falling upon her. 

"Come along, Martial," she 
said, with a pleasant smile, "the 
i la f anil's is ready, and the soup, 
too. Call the little ones/ 1 

Martial Tharaud arose, put his 
hands up to his mouth, and called 
out to the boys, who were still 
enjoying their game : 

*' Hallo, there ! Come along, 
you little rascals! Soup is ready ! " 

The boys ran up to him, and, 
as they all went inside, lie took 
off his military cap and gaily 
saluted us. 

Original from 

Jack Middle ton's Mother. 

By Charles S. Cheltnam. 


C-HO ! Special edition ! " 
"Yer yar, sir! Take 


I see yer fust, 

/ wa^ first f 



11 No, sir 
please, sir. 11 
Two young ragamuffins, with seemingly 
not a pin's choice between them, were the 
speakers, and probably I should not have 
noticed either of them specially but for the 
occurrence of a momentary episode, in 
which they played very strongly contrasting 

In taking a halfpenny out of my pocket 
to pay for the 
paper which the 
more active of 
the two boys had 
thrust into my 
hand by the 
^summary pro- 
cess of shoulder- 
ing his competi- 
tor aside, I had, 
without being 
aware of the 
fact, let fall a 
shilling, which 
had rolled a yard 
or tw ? o away. 

The boy who 
had served me 
with the paper 
had seen the 
coin fall, and 
scarcely stayed 
to take his half- 
penny before 
darting after it ; 
but the boy he 
had distanced by 
his bit of sharp 
practice had also 
seen the coin 
(ill, and had picked it up by the time the 
other reached him. A moment later I came 
upon them, and overheard this significant 
scrap of dialogue : 

11 Yah ! Yer ain't a-goin' ter be such a 
juggins as ter giv' it *im back, are yer ? " 

" Yes I am," said the other. 

" Git out ! Don't be a fool ! Cop it 
now yer got it. He do* know as he's lost 

VUU JUST t.1 ME a i M •■ 

it, air nobody but me see yer pick it up. 
Look 'ere; you just gi' mc 'arves, that's wot 
yer got ter do, if ye're goin 1 ter be one o 1 
my pals ; an' if yer ain't — well, don't yer 
come 'ere agin, try in' ter sell no Ekkers, 
f eos I won' let yen So look out ! fl 

Though as yet I was in the dark as to 
the meaning of all this, [ had heard enough 
to satisfy me that the boy to whom these 
threats were addressed was being bullied by 
the other, a boy about twelve years of age, 
as well as I could guess, and not bigger 
than himself, but with a hardened look of 
the streets in his face — a horrible look when 

one pauses to 
> examine it and 
to think how it 
has come to be 
stamped upon 
the face of a boy 
but little past 
the years of his 
infancy, sug- 
gesting a doubt, 
indeed, whether 
he can ever have 
known such a 
time of life. 

The second 
boy, equally tat- 
tered as he was 
as to clothing, 1 
could see at a 
glance exhi- 
bited, distinctly, 
points of advan- 
tage over him. 
He was cleaner, 
both as to flesh 
and dress, and 
the stamp or 
stain iff preco- 
cious experience 
was not recog- 
nisable in his face. It also occurred to my 
mind that the few words I had heard him 
speak were better spoken , and, in them- 
selves, more correct than those which had 
issued from the others lips. 

My observation of the two boy?, which 
was only that of a moment, was cut short 
by the one who had picked up my shilling 
raising his eyes and seeing me. Without 




the least sign of hesitancy, he held out the 
coin to me, saying : 

" Please, sir, you dropped this." 
The other boy turned away in angry 

" DW I ? " I asked. 

11 Yes, sir, when you took out the 
ha'penny to pay the other boy." 

Here I must make a remark which is 
personal to myself — enunciate a principle, 
while confessing that I have not always 
commanded sufficient firmness of mind, or 
rigidity of moral purpose, to put it into 
execution. I hold honesty to be a normal 
condition, and so, rarely if ever to be dealt 
with as if it were exceptional and extra- 
ordinary. The custom of rewarding poor 
people for doing something which all 
persons, whether rich or poor, are under 
primary obligation to do, has always 
appeared to me calculated to do harm to 
character, to confound simple moral obliga- 
tion with virtue, never attainable except by 
effort, and mostly by sacrifice. 

My first impulse was to say to this honest 
lad, li You are a good boy, keep the shil- 
ling " ; but the thought crossed my mind, 
that the good which this small sum might 
do him might be a hundred times weighed 
down by the evil done to him, by linking, 
in his young mind, the idea of honesty 
with that of reward. 

I closely watched his face as I took the 
piece of money from his hand ; I could 
not detect in it the slightest expression of 
disappointment or regret. The fact struck 
me, I admit. I knew nothing about this 
poor boy, or of his companionships, more 
than I had just seen ; there would have been 
nothing surprising, then — nothing, indeed, 
more than I might have expected to see 
— if he had parted with this shilling with 
some small show of reluctance. But he did 
nothing of the sort — evidently looked for 
no return beyond the thanks I gave him. 

He was turning quietly away, to sell his 
papers if he could, but I delayed him. 

44 How long have you been at this trade ? " 

The blood, I remarked, rushed into his 
face, and the next moment deserted it ; and 
he half stammered as he answered : 

14 Only a few weeks, sir. M 

44 Can you make a living out of it ? " I 
inquired, not insensible to the grim irony 
of asking a small boy of twelve years old 
whether he could u make a living " out of 
anything in the nature of work. 

44 Some days, sir," he replied. 

44 When there happens to be something 

Diqilizeo by v_ii. 

exciting in the paper — a shocking murder, 
or a big burglary ? " 

4f If— yes, sir," he stammered. And again 
I noticed the ebb and flow of blood in his 
cheeks, but without paying any special heed 
to the fact. 

44 Have you tried your hand at anything 
else ? " I asked 

44 No, sir." 

44 Not as an errand-boy ? " 

44 No, sir. I'm not strong enough for 
most places of that sort, sir — and they don't 
give wages enough, even if I were to get 
taken on on trial." 

44 Ah ! your parents are very poor, 
then ? " 

44 Yes, sir," he replied, with marked hesi- 

I had no particular object in thus cate- 
chising the poor boy in this way, but there 
was something in his manner which drew 
me on — his flushing and now this hesi- 
tancy. My interest in him was, almost 
unconsciously to myself, being aroused. 

44 If a good boy's place were offered you, 
have you got a character to give ? " I asked. 

For a moment he paused, and when he 
answered his eyes were downcast, his face 
white, and there were tears in his voice as 
he said, almost in a whisper : 

44 No, sir." 

44 Had one and lost it, do you mean ? " I 

44 No, sir." 

44 You have never been in trouble — never 
done anything wrong ? " 

44 No, sir — never." 

Teirs burst from his eyes, which were 
soon made red and swollen by the applica- 
tion of his knuckles. He was a good boy 
and a frank-minded boy — of that I felt quite 
sure ; but I felt equally certain that he had 
a secret, and that he was withholding it 
from me. I had been examining him closely 
all the time I was speaking, and, little by 
little, the interest he had awakened within 
.me had increased. 

44 Well, now— look here," I said, "I 
want a boy about your size and age to be in 
my chambers while I am out : have you a 
mother ? " 

44 Oh, yes, sir ! " he replied, almost eagerly. 

44 Then, as you have no character to give 
me, I'll see her." 

44 No, sir ! — no ! you can't see my 
mother, sir ! " he cried, with unmistakable 
terror in his voice. 

44 Why not ? " I asked, questioning him 
as closely with my eye* as with my lips. 




11 Please, sir,* 1 he sobbed, "I can't tell 

I paused, for it was now plain to me that 
I was torturing this poor boy, even while 
my desire was to be of service to him, 

" Very well/ 1 I said ; " I'll not ask you 
any more questions. Think of what I have 
said to you, and if, after you have done 
that, you would like to say anything on the 
subject to me, I often pa&s this spot, and I 


daresay you will recognise me — if you do 
not already know me by sight." 

4 * Oh, yes, sir, I know you very well by 
sight, and thank you kindly, sir, for what 
you've said/' he replied, still through his 

I was turning away, but suddenly re- 
membered that, while I had been holding 
him in conversation, the brief time in 
which he could hope to sell his papers had 
been passing away from him, 

4 * How many papers have you got left to 
sell ? " I asked, 

II Two dozen, sir/- he answered, after 
rapidly counting them. 

" All right ! * I said ; " I'll clear you out. 

Here's a shilling for them. Take them to 
my chambers over yonder, and give them 
to the housekeeper for me." And I gave 
him my card. 

On returning late at night, I found the 
pile of Echos encumbering my writing- 
table ; and my talk with the boy of whom 
I had bought them returned fully, not to 
say importunately, to my mind before I 
could find release from it in sleep* One 
fact, in particular, kept returning to 
my mind — that, though I had spoken 
to the poor lad about his mother, I had 
not asked him anything about his 
father — hud, in truth, not once thought 
of that individual, if there was such a 
person extant. 

A week or ten days passed without 
my seeing my newspaper boy, though 
I had many times been by the spot 
which I supposed to be his beat, if 
that is the right word to use in that 
connection ; but, one morning, on 
reaching my chambers, I found him 
there waiting to see me. 

He was looking very pale and miser- 
able, as if he had been ill— as if he 
were still ill, in fact — and I noticed 
that there were discoloured circles 
about his eyes, I asked what had been 
the matter with him, and he told me 
he had been laid up ever since I saw 
him last. 

This was his story : Nearly as soon 
as I left him, a few minutes only after 
he had delivered the papers at my 
chambers, he was set upon by the boy 
who had wanted him to share with 
him the shilling he had seen me drop, 
and by this young brute and some 
others of his kidney had been hustled, 
savagely beaten, and plundered of all 
the money he had. His eyes were both 
blackened, his head was cut and otherwise 
hurt, and he had hardly strength enough left 
to get from the Strand across Westminster 
Bridge to Stangale, where his mother 
lived. Then his mother had bound up his 
head as well as she could, and for two days 
he had been unconscious and delirious ■ and 
after that he was so weak as not to be able 
to go out of his mother's room ; and at last, 
when he was strong enough to go out, he 
had no money to buy any papers, and — 


"And then you thought of coming to see 
me?" I suggested, 

u No, sir — it wasn't in that way, sin 
When I told my mother how it was the 




poor boy's story might 
" move a heart of stone 

boys set upon me, I told her of what you 
said to me, and of your kind offer to give 
me a place, if— if " 

" If I were satisfied with your mother's 
account of you ; I remember. Well— what 
did she say to that ? " 

" Please, sir, it made her cry for days to- 
gether, and nearly broke her heart." 

These words were simple enough, and, 
heaven knows, the boy's way of speaking 
them was as simple as the words ; but they 
distressed me. A mystery — a tragic mystery, 
I divined — underlay them. 

44 Did your mother blame you for not let- 
ting me see her ? " I asked. 

44 Oh, no, sir ! She said I had done quite 
right in that. But all the time I was ill 
she thought about it ; and when I was able 
to get out, and she couldn't give me any 
money to buy some papers with — even half 
a quire — she cried worse than ever, and at 
last she told me to come and tell you that, 
if you would kindly take the trouble to go 
so far as Stangate, she would gratefully see 

It seemed to me, as I listened, that this 

as the saying is, 
" it moved mine 
— whence, if I needed the assurance, I think 
I might safely conclude that my heart is 
made of a more sensitive material. 

44 Go and fetch me a hansom," I said, 
without debating the matter. There are 
things which it is better to do on the spur 
of the moment, and this, I instinctively felt, 
was one of that sort. 

From the longitude of the Law Courts 
to that of Stangate is not a long journey in 
a hansom with a good horse in front of it. 
In a quarter of an hour I was talking with 
my little newspaper- boy's mother. 

The room into which I was conducted — 
it was a back room on the third floor, 
entered from a dirt-begrimed landing-place, 
lit by a window that had certainly not been 
cleaned for many years, and had two or 
three panes of broken glass in it — the room 
into which I was conducted was as poor in 
aspect as a dwelling-place of poverty could 
be ; but, bare as it was — a bed in probably 
the least draughty corner, a small deal table, 
two wooden chairs, and a box something 
like a middling-sized sea-chest, was all that- 
met the eye in the shape of furniture and 
effects — it was kept with a manifest effort 
at cleanliness. 

But, from the moment of entering it, I 
took very little heed of the room and its 
furniture ;. my whole attention was given to 

uiqilized by LiOO r 

its mistress, who rose to receive me. As 
my eyes fell upon her worn and almost 
bloodless face, my heart felt as if seized and 
spasmodically pressed by a nervous hand. 

Mrs. Middleton, worn by sorrow and lack 
of sufficient food, and with hair becoming 
prematurely grey, was, I could see, yet but 
little over thirty years of age. To my eyes, 
she was still a beautiful woman ; to eyes 
that had looked upon her face ten or a 
dozen years earlier, she must have appeared 
strikingly beautiful. There was a stamp 
of grace upon her bearing which neither 
bodily weakness nor poorness of attire could 
conceal. She was above rather than below 
the middle height. She wore a black gown 
of some material, frayed and threadbare, 
but to which — heaven knows how — she 
contrived to give an air of unstudied neat- 
ness. But it was her eyes — her large, soft, 
sad blue eyes (made larger by the paleness 
and thinness of her face) that riveted my 
gaze, in which I seemed to read the his- 
tory of a beautiful woman's wreck, before a 
word had been uttered by her white lips. 

44 It is very kind of you, sir, to take so 
much trouble on account of my poor boy," 
she said, inviting me to be seated. 

If I had had any doubt before, I could 
have none now. I was being addressed by 
a woman who had been reared in the midst 
of refinement, the spirit of which remained 
with her indelibly. She seated herself, after 
1 Jaad taken the chair she had offered me, 
and continued — 

44 My boy is a very good boy, or I do not 
think I should be speaking with you now." 
She paused ; then, after a moment s thought, 
said, 44 Jack, dear, go out and walk about 
for a few minutes ; I shall be better able to 
tell this gentleman what he wants to know 
about you. 

44 Go and see whether there is anything 
startling in the newspaper bills — and bring 
me back a paper, if there is," I said cheer- 
fully, handing him a shilling. It was on 
the tip of my tongue to add, 44 and bring 
back something for you and your mother to 
eat ; " but a look at the beautiful pale face 
before me imposed, I knew not why, silence 
upon my lips. 

As soon as we were alone, Mrs. Middleton 
— who had followed her boy out of the 
room with looks of almost anguished ten- 
derness in her great, sad eyes, said : 

44 It was not in consequence of any 
instruction from me that my boy hesitated 
to accept your kind offer to befriend him, 
but from fej.r of giving me pain." 




I hastened to interrupt her. I was agi- 
tated. It seemed to me that I owed her an 

"I'm afraid I acted very thoughtlessly in 
all that/' I stammered . '* Pray forgive me, 
madam ; I — had I need say it ? — no idea — 1T 

She started* A shiver ran through her 
enfeebled frame, and on the breath of an 
irrepressible sob she cried : 

II 0h f sir i for pitv's sake do not speak to 
me like that ! " 

She had fallen into a passionate fit of 
weeping, and I could find no words to soothe 
her. For a moment, I wished myself any^ 
where away from that wretched lodging In 
Stangate ; but I was fascinated, held by the 
unseeable bonds of an \inmastcrablc sym- 

" Pray forgive me, sir ; I am in a highly 
nervous condition, and unable at moments 
to put a proper restraint upon my feelings/ 1 
she said, as soon as she had recovered a 
certain degree 
of calmness. 
11 1 have gone 
through great 
trouble s— 
have great 
troubles still 
before me, in 
which my poor 
boy has had, 
and must still 
have, his share. 
For your kind- 
iK--- of inten- 
tion towards 
him, no grati- 
tude can be 
greater than 
ours ; but, for 
that reason, I 
wish you to 
know who and 
what are the 
persons you 
are willing to 

She dried 
her eyes, and 
her resolution 
seemed to take 
courage as she 
spoke r 

"You al- 
ready know — 

a word which you have spoken has told 
me— that T and my boy have known better 
days i before you think further of befriending 

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us j it is right that you should know why 
you find us in the state in which you now 
see us : it is right, on every account, that 
you should be thoroughly informed how our 
present misery has come upon us t and what 
it really is. My boy is the son of a convict, 
now undergoing penal servitude at Dart- 
moor ; he knows this, God help him ! and 
it is this which he had not the courage to 
tell you, when you asked him what reference 
as to character he could give you/' 

1 was startled by this wholly unlooked- 
for revelation, and I was conscious of being 
quite unable to conceal from her the painful 
surprise it had caused me. 

" That my poor boy has no share in his 
father's guilt I need not say/' she went on ; 
" but the world, in its wisdom, or in its 
heedlessness of strict right, include* him in 
his father's punishment by branding him 
with the stigma of 'convict's son/ so warn- 
ing all men to be specially on their guard 

against trust* 
ing hini. That 
it should be so 
isunjust, cruel; 
but the un- 
happy ones on 
whom this in- 
justice falls 
only add a 
misery the 
more to their 
load by denun- 
ciations that 
can bring them 
no remedy. " 

I confess- 
to my shame, 
perhaps — that 
in my agitation 

I did not know 
what reply to 
make to what 
she had said ; 
not that I for 
an instant dis- 
agreed with 
her view of the 
hardship of her 
son's case. 

♦'Gh, sir!" 
she continued, 

II if I could tell 
you the whole 
story, you 

would see that the position of my poor boy is 

a specially hard oik\ When hv was born, tin: 

life before him ums :i^ fair and promising as 
' Original from 





that of any child could be. I was married 
at twenty, out of a family not rich but 
abundantly well-to-do, to a man of my own 
sphere — a man well educated, and with 
talents, as a painter, that might have 
secured to him a name and ample means, a 
fortune even. Ours was a love match, we 
thought ; and I, at least, was happy for the 
first two years of our wedded life. Then 
there came a change in him ; he made fresh 
acquaintances, out of his own circle, and, 
step by step, wandered away into what is 
called the world of pleasure. He ceased to 
paint, he took to drink, he passed most of 
his time away from home, he squandered 
my little fortune in dissipation, and, next, 
he reduced me and my child to homeless- 

She told me all this without a taint of 
bitterness in her voice, only a heavy sad- 
ness, as of a misfortune that must be borne 
withpatience, because it is irremediable. 

"Then," she continued, " there followed 
a time when I saw him only at lengthened 
intervals. How he lived I knew not ; I and 
my boy would have starved but for the 
money I raised on the few rings and 
trinkets I had saved out of the home- 
wreck. My parents would have taken me 
back to them, but only on condition that I 
sought a divorce from my husband ; and, 
for the good of my boy, I thought, I de- 
cisively refused to accept that condition. 
Oh, that I could have foreseen ! " 

Here a flood of tears choked her utter- 
ance for a minute or more, and I debated 
with myself whether I was not acting a 
cruel part by suffering her to put herself to 
this pain ; but I was deeply — much more 
"deeply than I could at the moment account 
for — interested in the story of her trials, and 
could not bring myself to check her con- 

" Could I have foreseen at that time, all 
the misery and shame that now weigh 
upon me and my poor boy would have been 
averted/ 1 she went on. " I have said I did 
not know how my husband lived. Per- 
haps, even disgraced as he was, he might 
have retrieved himself by returning to his 
profession as a painter ; but he never made 
the least effort in that direction. Later, I 
learned that his sole means of subsistence 
were the precarious gains of an outside 
book-maker : and, later still — oh, my God ! 
— what it was I then learned ! — that he had 
become one of a daring gang of burglars ; 
that he had been captured, convicted, 
sentenced to five years' penal servitude ! " 

" How long back was that ? " I asked, 
hastily, for the horror of this scoundrel's 
return, with a ticket-of-leave, had flashed 
upon my mind. 

" Three years ago," she replied ; adding, 
" I know why you ask me that. Yes ! a 
few months hence he may be released, and 
may claim me and his son. God forgive 
him if he does, for it will be my death, 
and the destruction of my poor boy ! " 

This suggestion of the horrors that might 
be hanging over these two misfortune- 
stricken beings filled me with mingled 
alarm and indignation ; further mixed, I 
own, with a feeling of cowardice, which 
urged me to get away from its contempla- 

" How long have you contrived to live 
without assistance ? " I asked, nervously 
and inconsequently. 

She replied : " I have been able to get 
an engagement at one or other of the thea- 
tres on this side of the water for a few weeks 
at Christmas-time, as a figurante until 
last winter, when, to add to my trouble, I 
fell ill — too ill to encounter the fatigue. It 
was then that my boy first went into the 
dreadful streets, and helped to save his 
mother from starvation by selling news- 
papers. But he has told you of the peril, 
that life is beyond his powers ; and so it is 
that, turning to your kind offer, I resolved 
to tell you the whole truth concerning 
him before allowing him to accept it." 

I was about to say, " Let him come to me 
at once," when I heard sounds of hurrying 
footsteps upon the stairs. The room door 
flew open, and the poor boy, a newspaper 
in his hand, his face white as ashes, and his 
eyes seemingly starting from his head, 
rushed in, almost shrieking — 

" Oh, mother ! mother ! " 

"Jack, my darling! my darling! what 
is the matter ? " 

The agonised boy had thrown himselt 
wildly at her knees, and, sobbing convul- 
sively, buried his face in her lap. 

" My Jack ! my darling ! don't cry so, 
but tell me what has happened to you," 
cried his mother, lovingly soothing him 
with hands and voice. 

" My father ! my father ! " he sobbed. 

" Oh, my God ! you have not seen him ? 
— it is not that ? " she asked, in a fainting 

" Mother, dear mother, I can't tell you : 
it's in the newspaper ! " 

I snatched up the paper which had 
dropped ff9|7hj|^| trembling hand. My 




eyes seemed drawn as by a magnet to an 
article made conspicuous by having three 
or four head-]! lies in large type : " Des- 
perate attempt to escape from Dartmoor 
Prison, 7 ' H Several warders badly wounded," 
u The prisoner killed." 

Yes, there could be no doubt about it : 
the prisoner who had made so murderous 
an attempt to regain hia forfeited liberty 
was Gilbert Middleton, the father of my 
newspaper- boy, the husband of the mar- 
tyrised woman now trembling before my 
eyes ; and that, in defending themselves, 
the warders had inflicted injuries upon him 
that had caused his death. 

With a terrified gesture Mrs, Middleton 
held out her hand for the paper, and, hardly 
conscious of what I was doing, I gave it up 
to her. A bare glance sufficed to assure her 
that she was a widow. Then, with in- 
credible strength, she snatched up her boy, 
and enveloped him in her embraces, her 
uncontrollable sobs mingling with his. 

I did not then pause to analyse, or in any 
way even to account for my feelings ; but I 
was sensible, on leaving the mother and son 
to the privacy of their affection and sorrow, 
that I carried away with me a strange sort 
of satisfaction, both because Mrs. Middleton 
was for ever released from further contact 

with a man who had filled her life so far 
with misery, and because I knew, as well as 
if her heart had been my own, that the hour 
of her girlish disillusion had struck early in 
the days of her wedded life, and that she had 
never for a moment loved him afterwards. 

By the employment of a little diplomacy, 
I prevailed upon her to permit me to help 
her to live until the state of her health 
enabled her to find employment of some 
kind. Jack I at once took into my service, 
as I had at first proposed to do. By good 
fortune, I was, after a while, enabled to do 
something better still for both mother and 
son : by my persuasion, her father (now a 
widower), who had known but little of her 
sufferings during the years of their estrange- 
ment, welcomed her kindly back to the 
hearth of her childhood, 

Two years have passed since then ; the 
youthful roundness, if not all the girlish 
rose-hue, has returned to Mrs. Middleton's 
cheeks. I think she is the most beautiful 
woman I have ever looked upon ■ I am sure 
she is the best ; and her Jack and I are as 
much to each other as any father and son 
can be ; and some day, perhaps— — 

How strange — how solemn, it may be — 
such happiness would seem, in the memory 
of all that had gone before it ! 


al from 

Street Musicians. 


USIC "hath 

charms to 
soothe,' 1 we ad- 
mit, but not all 
music, and not 
at all times ; 
and it is this 
modification of 
the soothing effects of 
music that our street 
minstrels, both vocal and 
instrumental, seem to be 
unable, or unwilling, to 

Yet the street min- 
strelsy of to-day is nothing like so out- 
rageously annoying and worrying as it was 
twenty years ago. Occasionally only do we 
hear one of those wretched old barrel- 
organs which helped to drive Parliament to 
pass the Act of 1863, That enactment was 
intended to minimise, or, at least, to modify, 
the annoyance caused by the so-called 
music of the streets, and it has succeeded. 

Speaking generally, there are two kinds 
of street musicians — the tolerable and the 
intolerable. Amongst the former, we 
may include the poor fiddler who tells us 
that when he is** on the job/' he manages 
to scrape together a decent livelihood. After 
ten years he has become weather hardened, 
and his long- tailed frock coat serves for 
winter or summer, with the only variation 
of being buttoned or unbuttoned. He has 
his regular patrons, who look out for him 
about once a week, One old spinster, who 
lives in a suburban villa, is always u good 
for a bob" when he plays " I dreamt that 
I dwelt in marble halls. 1 * Now and then 
you may hear the old girl warbling out the 
ballad with the window wide open, much to 
the amusement of the passers-by. A few 
doors off lives an old sea captain, whose 
grandson has always to dance a hornpipe? 
when the fiddler comes round, and the old 
salt immediately sends out hot rum and 
water, whatever the time of year. 

When the fiddler tries a new locality, he 
begins with, '* The Heart Bowed Down/* 
which scarcely ever fails to bring a sympa- 
thetic someone to the window. His average 
daily takings are from frmr to five shillings, 
in the autumn he plavs himself down to 

Digitized by dOOglO 

Margate, and gets a mouthful of fresh air, 
and plenty of " recognition." 

It was an accident that made him take 
to the tin whistle, or the " American flage- 
olet," as he calls it. Bad luck had com- 
pelled him to pawn his fiddle, and, till he 
could raise the money to get it out again, 
he had recourse to the cheapest instrument 
he could think of, and that was the penny 
tin whistle, He certainly does get some 
capital tone out of it, and, at a distance, it 
may be mistaken for the piccolo. He did 
not, however, make much of his playing 
till he had the whistle soldered on to a 
tin coffee-pot, in place of the spout . This 
took immensely, and the coffee-pot brought 
in more pence than the fiddle, sometimes 
as much as eight or nine shillings a day. 

Another penny whistler is a blind man, 
who morning, noon, and night tootles out 
"The Last Rose of Summer," alternated 
with a doleful hymn tune. What ,: ttle 
money the poor fellow gets is given more 
out of compassion for his affliction than 
for any pleasure that his music affords. 

Conscious perhaps that his bag-pipes 

11 TOr fcjtn iWtatm^r ■-• 



alone would not bring in the bawbees, 
Sanely MacTosh adds the attraction of a 
Scotch reel or pipe-dance. Dressed in 
full Highland costume, a little bit frowsy, 
the piper and his boy march along the 



quiet suburban roads, playing the pipes to 
attract attention, and stopping at a con- 
venient spot to give the dance. He gets very 
little encouragement, however, except from 
his own country people ; but he 
has found out their homes, and 
to them he pays regular visits. 
There is one real old Mac who 
i n variably celebrates his birthday 
with a feast of haggis and shep- 
herd's pie, and Sandy MacTosh 
always attends with his pipes 
to Li play in T1 the haggis. What 
is a haggis without the accom- 
paniment of a Highland skreel? 
As food and music, the pudding 
and the pipes match each other 
admirably, and by the time the 
feast is finished, and the Athbl 
Brose has been tipped off, both 
Mac and the piper are equally 
ready to sing, u We are na fou'. ,T 
But for the Highland families — 
the Lowlanders do not like the 
pipes — Sandy MacTosh and his 
tribe would starve. There are 
in London, perhaps, half a dozen 
other Highland bag-pipers and 
a few frauds : — 

** The 56 are Mile-enders, 
Dressed upas Highlander 

For the u Killim KaU 
lam " two long " church 
warden " pipes are used 
instead of the crossed 
swords* The dancing is 
just as difficult over the 
clays as over the clay- 
mores, and there is no 
danger of cutting the 
toes. Saturday night is 
the most profitable, then 
Monday, and Friday i> 
the least. Pipers do not 
often get molested, ex- 
cept by tipsy men, who 
always want to dance ; 
but Sandy then turns on 
the dreary-sounding 
drone and plays a doleful 
tune in extra slow time, 
so the drunken toper has 
to do an English instead 
of a Scotch reel 

The Italian tribe of 
street musicians may be 
dealt with as a group. 
There are the bag-pipers, 
the children with the accordion and triangle, 
the organ -man and the monkey, and the 
hurdy-gurdy grinder, all of whom hail from 
the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell, where 
there is an Italian colony. At the far 

«. Original. from 




The strand magazine. 


end of Leather- lane, in Little Bath -street 
and Warner-street, they swarm, and there 
is quite the look and smell and noise of 
the back slums of an Italian city. The 
butchers 1 shops are stocked with the heads, 
trotters, and u innards" of bullocks, calves, 
sheep, and pigs, and there is the u Piggy - 
Wiggy pork-shop/ 5 and Italian barbers and 
cobblers. The Restaurant Italiano Milard 
is where many of the Italians spend their 
lazy day — which is Fri- 
day. There are also 
ice-cream makers, roast 
chestnut " merchants,'' 
and dealers in old 
clothes. Round the 
latter the Italian 
women congregate, and 
bargain for, and try on 
the gaudy-coloured 
garments- — gowns, pet- 
ticoats, and shawls, 
which must have been 
specially selected to 
suit the tastes of the 

At the corner of 
Little Bath-street is 
the headquarters of the 
organ-grinders. There 
they congregate early 
in the morning before 
they start on their 
rounds, and distribute 
their monkeys, babies, 

and dancing children* The premises 
belong to one of the principal makers 
of piano-organs in London, and the 
whole of the ground floor is arranged 
as a depot, where some hundreds of 
instruments are stored. Part of them 
may be hired, but most of them are 
owned by the people we see playing 
them in the streets, A small sum is 
charged for " shed room/ 1 and any 
alterations or repairs can be done on the 
premises. The proprietors are Italians, 
and are spoken of as very fair-dealing 
people. We found, on inquiry, that at 
least half of the owners of the piano- 
organs are English people, who have 
bought their instruments, paying £10 
or £ l S f° r them by instalments- The 
charge for hire is about ios. per week. 
There is a choice of all the latest popular 
operatic and music-hall tunes, and gene- 
rally all the tunes arc changed every six 
months, though some tunes, like "The 
Lost Chord 1 ' and li The Village Black- 
smith," are seldom taken off the barrels. 
A piano-organ, if taken care of and pro- 
tected from the wet, will last ten or twelve 
years. A new tune, if not very florid, can 
be put in for gs + or ios. 

The monkey organ -man with the old- 
fashioned discordant barrel-organ is an old 
stager — the original u organ-grinder." He 
looks out for the streets where straw is laid 
down, and begins to grind directly. An 

Una i rial Tram 



enraged pater- 
familias^ who has 
just carefully tied 
up the knocker 
with a white kid 
glove, *.nd muffled 
all the bells, calls 
out to the man, 
11 Go away, do. 
Don't you see the 
straw?" The 
organ - grinder 
touches his hat, 
grins, sends the 
monkey to climb 
up the water-pipe, 
and begins another 
tune. Ultimately 
he gets locked up, 
and then coolly 
tells the magistrate 
that he did not go 
away because he 
thought the straw 
was put down so 
that the noise of 
the carts should not drown the music ! 

The Savoyard hurdy-gurdy player is 
almost extinct. The music is produced by 
the friction of a wheel on one or more 
strings, and the tone is regulated by pres- 
sure on keys* The men admit that they 
get more money for sitting as artists 1 
models than from playing* The hurdy- 
gurdy is amongst stringed instruments 
what the bag-pipes are amongst the wind 
instruments, bu: yet no one ever hears 
them played to- 
gether. Probably 
the players them- 
selves could not 
stand the combined 

The Italians send 
out their wives 
with two babies — 
not always their 
own — and, when 
thj children get 
big enough, they 
take the place of 
the almost obsolete 
monkey, and do 
the begging* Older 
Italian girls pick 
up a lot of money 
in the City, and 
their success has 
prompted several 


English and Irish 
girls to imitate 
them by colouring 
their skins with 
walnut juice, and 
rigging themselves 
out in the Italian 
style. Many of 
these girls in earlier 
life danced round 
the piano * organs 
in the streets, and 
were paid to do so 
by the organ- 
grinders, as people 
who would give 
nothing for the 
music would give 
a penny to see the 
little ones dancing. 
Such a juvenile 
u £al al fresco" 
makes a pretty pic- 
ture^ not thought 
unworthy of the 
walls of the Royal 
Amongst the intolerable street musicians 
must certainly be placed the Indian tom-tom 
player* His instrument is a drum of a very 
primitive kind, made out of a section of the 
hollow trunk of a tree, over each end of which 
a skin is tightly stretched* It is about the 
size of an oyster barrel, and the noise is 
produced by beating it with the hands. 
There are but two tones— one from each 
end — and the mournful monotony of the 

by Google 

'OUT WITH TMF, *44V3^] f fQ ffl. 




1 HAL AL FtftSCO. 

music is only varied by a few notes of a 
tuneless song which the player now and 
then puts in. The servant girls are his 
principal patrons, and some years since 

11 TOM -TCTt* 

one of these tom-tomers completely cap- 
tivated a young English cook-maid and 
married her. 

The bassoonist admits that he has seen 
better days, but he enjoys playing his 
awkward-looking instrument, and, when in 
the humour, plays it remarkably wclL He 
was once in a military band, then in an 

orchestra at a 

theatre, and now 
picks up a pretty 
penny by playing 
in the evening in 
the West -end 
squares. He don't 
care for per- 
manent engage* 
ments, and pre- 
fers to be "on 
his own hook/' 
though he occa- 
sionally chums 
up with another 
street musician — 
Old Blowhard, 
who plays the 
cornet -a-piston. He only plays by ear, 
and can, therefore, only manage a few 
tunes, to which the bassoonist extemporises 
a telling bass. According to the bassoonist, 
'* Blowhard is a rattling old boy when in a 
good humour, but he's awful short-tempered ; 
and often when in the middle of a duet — 
especially in * All's Well* — he'll stop blow- 
ing, call me nasty names, and step it + 
But he soon comes round again T and soaps 
me over by playing very feelingly — 

( I love new friends, but still give me 
The dear a dear friends of old/ " 

According to Blowhard, (( Pumper" — that 
is, the bassoonist — is all right 
when he plays fair, but he will 
put in flourishes and fireworks, 
which puts me out and spoils 




as it does j of glass tumblers sufficient 
in number to represent about two 
octaves of notes, They are arranged 
on a light table in two rows t like 
a harmonicon. The pitch of the 
notes is regulated by the quantity 
of water put into each tumbler. 
One glass is reserved for lemon - 
juice and water, into which the 
performer now and then dips his 
fingers. The sound is produced by 
rubbing the wet 
fingers on the 


Perhaps the oldest and least objection- 
able of the street musicians is the campano- 
logist, or, as he styles himself, " The Royal 
Bell-Ringer, TJ He makes a pitch in a quiet 
street or alley, and rigs up his ten bells on 
a tightened wire. With a short stick in 
each hand, he strikes his bells, and pro- 
duces some pleasing melodies ; the general 
favourites are " Home, Sweet Home" and 
11 The Blue Bells of Scotland " ; and he 
generally concludes with a wedding peal. 

Scarcely anyone can object to the per- 
former on the musical glasses. His 
li instrument " is simple enough, consisting, 


11 TIT* TtOVAt flmtt^IttCtEH* 

<\v^*. . 

Original from 

rim of the glasses, 
and some very 
pleasing music is 
the result. Ac- 
cording to your 
nationality you 
can have u Home, 
Sweet Home," 
11 Ye Banks and 
Braes' 1 "My 
Name's Edward 
Morgan, 1 ' or "The 
Banks of Allan 
Water. 11 

The 4 * One Man 
Band " is a well- 
known character* 
He began life with 
a Punch and Judy 
show, and then 
played the drum 
and pan-pipes. 



Being of an inventive 
turn of mind he added 
to his instruments the 
tambourine, triangle, and 
cymbals, which he played 
by leg movements. Then 
he added a concertina 
strapped to the left arm, 
a pair of clappers occupied 
his left hand, and with his 
right hand he played a 
hurdy-gurdy. The cap 
and jingling bells on his 
head completed "the 
band. 11 All these instru- 
ments were carefully kept 
in tune with each other, 
and the performer pro- 
duced some passable dance 
music of the country-fair 
type, while his boy took 
round the collecting shell. 
There are several similar 
performers about the 
country, but none with 
so many instruments. 


The ballad singer seldom 
starts on his rounds before 
dusk, and he is careful to 
get a report whispered 
widely about that he is 
the "deputy leading tenor 
of the London Opera 
Company, and don't want 
to be seen by daylight, as 
it might injure his reputa- 
tion/ 1 He is above being 
questioned, and tells you 
bluntly, " If you've got 
anything for the shell, 
why, shell out ; if not, 
shut up. I'll sing you 
your favourite song, but 
there's no time for gab- 
bing." He has a powerful 
and fairly good voice, and 
knows how to use it He 
occasionally says he has 
a cold and then he puts 
in an execrable deputy, 
which further exalts his 
own powers and himself 
in the opinion of his 
admirers. He sings the 
latest and most popular 
songs, and evidently 
pockets plenty of money, 
especially in the autumn 
at seaside places like Mar- 
gate and Ramsgate. 


„ Original from 

"ttffltfffiSlTY OF MICHIGAN 




" WACHT-AM-3HR1N. " 

Our German friends, who have so con- 
siderately left their " Happy Fatherland u to 
test the English taste for 
music, are happily getting 
less numerous every year, 
but there are still a few left 
— some tolerable, some other- 
wise. They are brought over 
from the agricultural parts of 
Germany by an enterprising 
bandmaster, who gives them 
four shillings a week, pays 
their fares provides instru- 
ments, uniforms, board and 
lodging, and teaches them 
to play some instrument. 
Their pay increases accord- 
ing to the progress they 
make. Fulham is their head- 
quarters and Sunday their 
practice day. The novices 
begin playing in the northern 
and eastern suburbs of Lon- 
don, and j as they improvej 
they are promoted to the 
south-west and west. A 
guide goes with them, and 
he does the collecting- Den- 
mark Hill being a favourite 

residential locality for well-to-do Germans 
the best bands generally work — or rather 
ilffihfliai: t P' a y — t ' iat way. 


by Google 




Dogs j especially singing dogs, take great 
delight in German bands, and may often 
be s<jen f with their noses skyward, lifting up 
their voices in grand chorus, and are no 
doubt supremely disgusted that their efforts 
to increase the harmony are not appreciated 
by the bandsmen. 

The Petticoat Quartette comprises four 
girls, supposed to be sisters. But they are 
none of them communicative, and the 
answer of the eldest one to our first ques- 
tion was somewhat startling: " Ask my 
Pa," said the lady, to the innocent question, 
11 Are you all "sisters ? (1 Where they 
picked up their playing powers, what they 
earn, and other cognate inquiries were 
answered by the equivalent of u What's 
that to you ? ,J They appear to have been 
pestered a good deal with proposals from 

trousered street musicians, to join their 
band ; as the eldest said emphatically, " We 
don't want no perfessional help from no- 
body." This reply j and an injunction 
from otie of the crowd to " Let the gals 
alone," checked further inquiries. 

With regard to the " Nigger Minstrels 1 * 
there is nothing new to be said, and it has 
not yet been discovered why the singing of 
men with blackened hands and faces is 
liked, when the singing and playing of 
the same men with uncoloured skins would 
not be tolerated, Niggers — real niggers — 
never could either sing or play, but our 
ib Nigger Minstrels " can do both. 

Some street musicians at this time of the 
year — happily only a few — make a little 
overtime as waits, and keep us in mind of 
u The Mistletoe Bough. 1 ' 

by Google 

Original from 

Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. 

By A, Conan Doyle. 

HAD called upon my friend 
Sherlock Holmes upon the 
second morning after Christ- 
mas, with the intention of 
wishing him the compliments 
of the season. He was loung- 
ing upon the sofa in a purple dressing- 
gown, a pipe-rack within his reach upon the 
right, and a pile of crumpled morning papers, 
evidently newly studied, near at hand 
Beside the couch was a wooden chair, and 
on the angle of the back hung a very seedy 
and disreputable hard felt hat, much the 
worse for wear, and cracked in several 
places. A lens and a forceps lying upon 
the seat of the chair suggested that the hat 
had been suspended in this manner for the 
purpose of examination. 

" You are engaged," said I ; " perhaps I 
interrupt you/' 



(i Not at all. I am glad to have a friend 
with whom I can discuss my results. The 
matter is a perfectly trivial one ■' (he jerked 
his thumb in the direction of the old hat), 
u but there are points in connection with it 
which are not entirely devoid of interest, 
and even of instruction." 

I seated myself in his armchair, and 
warmed my hands before his crackling 
fire, for a sharp frost had set in T and the 
windows were thick with the ice crystals. 
" I suppose/ 1 I remarked j u that, homely as 
it looks, this thing has some deadly story 
linked on to it — that it is the clue which 
will guide you in the solution of some 
mystery, and the punishment of some 

IS No, no. No crime," said Sherlock 
Holmes, laughing. %l Only one of those 
whimsical little incidents which will happen 

when you have 
four million 
human beings 
all jostling each 
other within 
the space of a 
few square 
miles. Amid 
the action and 
reaction of so 
dense a swarm 
of humanity, 
every possible 
combination of 
events may be 
expected to 
take place, and 
many a little 
problem will 
be presented 
which may be 
striking and 
bizarre without 
being criminal. 
We have al- 
ready had expe- 
rience of such, " 

Original from 



" So much so/' I remarked, " that, of the 
last six cases which I have added to my 
notes, three have been entirely free of any 
legal crime." 

44 Precisely. You allude to my attempt to 
recover the Irene Adler papers, to the sin- 
gular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to 
the adventure of the man with the twisted 
Up. Well, I have no doubt that this small 
matter will fall 
into the same 
innocent catc- 
g o r y. You 
know Peterson, 
the commission- 
aire ? " 

u Yes." 

u It is to him 
that this trophy 

"It is his hat," 

"No, no ; he 
found it. Its 
owner is un- 
known, I beg 
that you will 
look upon it, not 
as a battered 
billycock, but as 
an intellectual 
problem, And, 
first, as to how 
it came here. It 
arrived upon 
ingj in company 
with a good fat 
goose j which is, 
I have no doubt t 

roasting at this moment in front of 
Peterson's fire* The facts are these. About 
four o'clock on Christmas morning, Peter- 
son, who, as you know, is a very honest 
fellow, was returning from some small 
jollification, and was making his way 
homewards down Tottenham Court -road. 
In front of him he saw, in the gaslight, 
a tallish man, walking with a slight 
stagger, and carrying a white goose slung 
over his shoulder. As he reached the 
corner of Goodge -street, a row broke out 
between this stranger and a little knot 
of roughs. One of the latter knocked off 
the man's hat, on which he raised his stick 
to defend himself, and, swinging it over his 
head, smashed the shop window behind 
him. Peterson had rushed forward to pro- 
tect the stranger from his assailants, but 
the man, shocked at having broken the 

Digitized by (j( 

window, and seeing an official-looking per- 
son in uniform rur'iing towards him, 
dropped his goose, took to his heels, and 
vanished amid the labyrinth of small streets 
which lie at the back of Tottenham Court- 
road. The roughs had also fled at the 
appearance of Peterson , so that he was left 
in possession of the field of battle, and also 
of the spoils of victory in the shape of this 


battered hat and a most unimpeachable 
Christmas goose. 11 

"Which surely he restored to their 
owner ? IT 

* b iMy dear fellow, there lies the problem. 
It is true that ' For Mrs + Henry Baker ' was 
printed upon a small card which was tied 
to the bird's left leg, and it is also true that 
the initials * H, B. ? are legible upon the 
lining of this hat ; but, as there are some 
thousands of Bakers, and some hundreds of 
Henry Bakers in this city of outs, it is not 
easy to restore lost property to any one of 

" What, then, did Peterson do ? " 

"He brought round both hat and goose 
to me on Christmas morning, knowing that 
even the smallest problems are of interest 
to me. The goose we retained until this 
morning, when there were signs that, in 




spite of the slight frost, it wculd be well 
that it should be eaten without unnecessary 
delay. Its finder has carried it off, there- 
fore, to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a 
goose, while I continue to retain the hat of 
the unknown gentleman who lost his 
Christmas dinner.' ' 

" Did he not advertise ? " 


" Then, what clue could you have as to 
his identity ? " 

" Only as much as we can deduce." 

" From his hat ? " 

" Precisely." 

"But you are joking. What ca. you 
gather from this old battered felt ? " 

"Here is my lens. You know my 
methods. What can you gather yourself 
as to the individuality of the man who has 
worn this article ? " 

I took the tattered object in my hands, 
and turned it over rather ruefully. It was 
a very ordinary black hat of the usual 
round shape, hard, and much the worse for 
wear. The lining had been of red silk, but 
was a good deal discoloured. There was 
no maker's name ; but, as Holmes had re- 
marked, the initials "H. B." were scrawled 
upon one side. It was pierced in the brim 
for a hat-securer, but the elastic was miss- 
ing. For the rest, it was cracked, exceed- 
ingly dusty, and spotted in several places, 
although there seemed to have been some 
attempt to hide the discoloured patches by 
smearing them with ink. 

" I can see nothing," said I, handing it 
back to my friend. 

"On the contrary, Watson, you can see 
everything. You fail, however, to reason 
from what you see. You are too timid in 
drawing your inferences." 

" Then, pray tell me what it is that you 
can infer from this hat ? " 

He picked it up, and gazed at it in the 
peculiar introspective fashion which was 
characteristic of him. "It is perhaps less 
suggestive than it might have been," he 
remarked, " and yet there are a few infer- 
ences which are very distinct, and a few 
others which represent at least a strong 
balance of probability. That the man was 
highly intellectual is of course obvious 
upon the face of it, and also that he was 
fairly well-to-do within the last three years, 
although he has now fallen upon evil days. 
He had foresight, but has less now than 
formerly, pointing to a moral retro- 
gression, which, when taken with the 
-decline of his fortunes, seems to indicate 

some evil influence, probably drink, at work 
upon him. This may account also for the 
obvious fact that his wife has ceased to love 

"My dear Holmes!" 

" He has, however, retained some degree 
of self-respect," he continued, disregarding 
my remonstrance. " He is a man who leads 
a sedentary life, goes out little, is out of 
training entirely, is middle-aged, has 
grizzled hair which he has had cut within 
the last few days, and which he anoints with 
lime-cream. These are the more patent 
facts which are to be deduced from his hat. 
Also, by the way, that it is extremely im- 
probable that he has gas laid on in his 

" You are certainly joking, Holmes." 

" Not in the least. Is it possible that 
even now when I give you these results you 
are unable to see how they are attained ? " 

"I have no doubt that I am very stupid ; 
but I must confess that I am unable to 
follow you. For example, how did you 
deduce that this man was intellectual ? " 

For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon 
his head. It came right over the forehead 
and settled upon the bridge of his nose. 
"It is a question of cubic capacity," said he ; 
" a man with so large a brain must have 
something in it." 

" The decline of his fortunes, then ? " 

" This hat is three years old. These flat 
brims curled at the edge came in then. It 
is a hat of the very best quality. Look at 
the band of ribbed silk, and the excellent 
lining. If this man could afford to buy so 
expensive a hat three years ago, and has had 
no hat since, then he has assuredly gone 
down in the world." 

" Well, that is clear enough, certainly. 
But how about the foresight, and the moral 
retrogression ? " 

Sherlock Holmes laughed. " Here is the 
foresight," said he, putting his finger upon 
the little disc and loop of the hat-securer. 
"They are never sold upon hats. If this man 
ordered one, it is a sign of a certain amount 
of foresight, since he went out of his way 
to take this precaution against the wind. 
But since we see that he has broken the 
elastic, and has not troubled to replace it, 
it is obvious that he has less foresight now 
than formerly, which is a distinct proof of 
a weakening nature. On the other hand, 
he has endeavoured to conceal some of 
these stains upon the felt by daubing them 
with ink, which is a sign that he has not 
entirely lost his self-respect." 



"Your reasoning is certainly plausible/ 1 
({ The further points, that he is middle- 
aged, that his hair is grizzled, that it has 
been recently cut^ and that he uses lime- 
cream, are all to be gathered from a close 
examination of the lower part of the lining. 
The leris discloses a large number of hair 
ends, clean cut by the scissors of the barber. 
They all appear to be adhesive, and there 
is a distinct odour of lime-cream* This 
dust, you will observe, is not the gritty, 
grey dust of the street, but the fluffy brown 
dust of the house, showing that it has been 
hung up indoors most of the time ; while 
the marks of moisture upon the inside arc 
proof positive that the wearer perspired 
very freely, and could, therefore, hardly be 
in the best of training. ' T 

14 But his wife — you said that 
she had ceased to love him/* 

u This hat has not been brushed 
for weeks. When I see you, 
my dear Wat- 
son, with a 
week's accumu- 
lation of dust 
upon your hat, 
and when your 
wife allows you 
to go out in such 
a state, I shall 
fear that you 
also have been 
enough to lose 
your wife's affec- 

"But he might 
be a bachelor." 

u Nay, he was 
bringing home 
the goose as a 
peace-offering to 

his wife. Remember the card upon the 
bird's leg.-' 

u You have an answer to everything. 
But how on earth do you deduce that the 
gas is not laid on in his house ? " 

■'One tallow stain, or even 
come by chance ; but, when I see no less 
than five, I think that there can be little 
doubt that the individual must be brought 
into frequent contact with burning tallow 
— walks upstairs at night probably with 
his hat in one hand and a guttering 
candle in the other. Anyhow, he never 
got tallow stains from a gas jet. Are you 
satisfied?" , 

41 Well, it is very ingenious/' said I, 

Digitized by G 

laughing ; " but, since, as you said just now, 
there has been no criqjjte committed, and no 
harm done save the loss of a goose, all this 
seems to be rather :i waste of energy/ 7 

Sherlock Holmes had opened hij mouth 
to reply, when tha door flew open, and 
Peterson the commissionaire rushed into 
the apartment with flushed cheeks and the 
face of a man who is dazed with astonish- 

"The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, 
six ! M he gasped. 

11 Eh ? What of it, then ? Has it re- 
turned to life, and flapped off through the 
kitchen window?" Holmes twisted him- 
self round upon the sofa to get a fairer view 
of the man's excited face. 

two, might 


" See here, sir ! See what my wife found 
in its crop ! " He held out his hand, and 
displayed upon the centre of the palm a 
brilliantly scintillating blue stone, rather 
smaller than a bean in size, but of such 
purity and radiance that it twinkled like 
1 an electric point in the dark hollow of his 

Sherlock Holmes sat up* with a whistle. 
"By Jove, Peterson!" said he, ^ this is 
treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know 
what you have got ? tT 

11 A diamond, sir I A precious stone ! 
It cuts into glass as though it were putty/* 

" It's more than a precious stone, It*$ 
the precious stone/' 

Original from 




44 Not the Countess of Morcar's blue car- 
buncle ! " I ejaculated. 

44 Precisely so. I ought to know its size 
and shape, seeing that I have read the 
advertisement about it in The Times every 
day lately. It is absolutely unique, and its 
value can only be conjectured, but the 
reward offered of a thousand pounds is cer- 
tainly not within a twentieth part of the 
market price." 

44 A thousand pounds ! Great Lord of 
mercy ! " The commissionaire plumped 
down into a chair, and stared from one to 
the other of us. 

44 That is the reward, and I have reason 
to know that there are sentimental consi- 
derations in the background which would 
induce the Countess to part with half 
her fortune, if she could but recover the 

44 It was lost, if I remember aright, at the 
Hotel Cosmopolitan,^ I remarked. 

44 Precisely so, on the twenty-second of 
December, just five days ago. John Horner, 
a plumber, was accused of having abstracted 
it from the lady's jewel case. The evidence 
against him was so strong that the case has 
been referred to the Assizes. I have some 
account of the matter here, I believe." He 
rummaged amid his newspapers, glancing 
over the dates, until at last he smoothed 
one out, doubled it over, and read the fol- 
lowing paragraph : — 

44 Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. 
John Horner, 26, plumber, was brought up 
upon the charge of having upon the 22 nd 
inst. abstracted from the jewel case of the 
Countess of Morcar the valuable gem known 
as the blue carbuncle. James Ryder, upper- 
attendant at the hotel, gave his evidence to 
the effect that he had shown Horner up to 
the dressing-room of the Countess of Mor- 
car upon the day of the robbery, in order 
that he might solder the second bar of the 
grate, which was loose. He had remained 
with Horner some little time, but had finally 
been called away. On returning, he found 
that Horner had disappeared, that the 
bureau had been forced open, and that the 
small morocco casket in which, as it after- 
wards transpired, the Countess was accus- 
tomed to keep her jewel was lying empty 
upon the dressing-table. Ryder instantly 
gave the alarm, and Horner was arrested 
the same evening ; but the stone could not 
be found either upon his person or in his 
rooms. Catherine Cusack, maid to the 
Countess, deposed to having heard Ryder's 
cry of dismay on discovering the robbery. 

and to having rushed into the room, where 
she found matters as described by the last 
witness. Inspector Bradstreet, B division, 
gave evidence as to the arrest of Horner, 
who struggled frantically, and protested his 
innocence in the strongest terms. Evi- 
dence of a previous conviction for robbery 
having been given against the prisoner, the 
magistrate refused to deal summarily with 
the offence, but referred it to the Assizes. 
Horner, who had shown signs of intense 
emotion during the proceedings, fainted 
away at the conclusion, and was carried out 
of court." 

44 Hum ! So much for the police-court," 
said Holmes, thoughtfully, tossing aside the 
paper. 44 The question for us now to solve is 
the sequence of events leading from a rifled 
jewel case at one end to the crop of a goose 
in Tottenham Court-road at the other. 
You see, Watson, our little deductions have 
suddenly assumed a much more important 
and less innocent aspect. Here is the 
stone ; the stone came from the goose, and 
the goose came from Mr. Henry Baker, the 
gentleman with the bad hat and all the 
other characteristics with which I have 
bored you. So now we must set ourselves 
very seriously to finding this gentleman, and 
ascertaining what part he has played in this 
little mystery. To do this, we must try the 
simplest means first, and these lie un- 
doubtedly in an advertisement in all the 
evening papers. If this fail, I shall have 
recourse to other methods." 

44 What will you say?" 

44 Give me a pencil, and that slip of paper. 
Now, then : 4 Found at the corner of Goodge- 
street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. 
Henry Baker can have the same by apply- 
ing at 6.30 this evening at 22 ib, Baker- 
street/ That is clear and concise." 

44 Very. But will he see it ? " 

44 Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the 
papers, since, to a poor man, the loss was 
a heavy one. He was clearly so scared by 
his mischance in breaking the window, and 
by the approach of Peterson, that he 
thought of nothing but flight ; but since 
then he must have bitterly regretted the 
impulse which caused him to drop his bird. 
Then, again, the introduction of his name 
will cause him to see it, for everyone who 
knows him will direct his attention to it. 
Here you are, Peterson, run down to the 
advertising agency, and have this put in the 
evening papers." 

14 In which, sir." 

"Oh, in the Globe, fSfttlR, Pall Mall, St. 




James* s, Evening News, Standard, Echo, 
and any others that occur to you." 

" Very well, sir. And this stone ? " 

44 Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank 
you. And, I say, Peterson, just buy a goose 
on your way back, and leave it here with me, 
for we must have one to give to this gentle- 
man in place of the one which your 
family is now devouring." 

When the commissionaire had gone, 
Holmes took up the stone and held it 
against the light. " It's a bonny thing," 
said he. "Just see how it glints and 
sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and 
focus of crime. Every good stone is. They 
are the devil's pet baits. In the larger and 
older jewels every facet may stand for a 
bloody deed. This stone is not yet twenty 
years old. It was found in the banks of the 
Amoy River in Southern China, and is re- 
markable in having every characteristic of 
the carbuncle, save that it is blue in shade, 
instead of ruby red. In spite of its youth, 
it has already a sinister history. There 
have been two murders, a vitriol-throwing, 
a suicide, and several robberies brought 
about for the sake of this forty -grain weight 
of crystallised charcoal. Who would think 
that so pretty a toy would be a purveyor to 
the gallows and the prison ? I'll lock it up 
in my strong box now, and drop a line to 
the Countess to say that we have it." 

44 Do you think that this man Horner is 
innocent ? " 

44 I cannot tell." 

44 Well, then, do you imagine that this 
other one, Henry Baker, had anything to do 
with the matter ? " 

"It is, I think, much more likely that 
Henry Baker is an absolutely innocent 
man, who had no idea that the bird which 
he was carrying was of considerably more 
value than if it were made of solid gold. 
That, however, I shall determine by a very- 
simple test, if we have an answer to our 

" And you can do nothing until then ? " 

" Nothing." 

" In that case I shall continue my pro- 
fessional round. But I shall come back in 
the evening at the hour you have men- 
tioned, for I should like to see the solution 
of so tangled a business." 

" Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. 
There is a woodcock, I believe. By the way, 
in view of recent occurrences, perhaps Iought 
to ask Mrs. Hudson to examine its crop." 

I had been delayed at a case, and it was 
a little after half-past six when I found my- 

self in Baker-street once more. As I 
approached the house I saw a tall man in a 
Scotch bonnet, with a coat which was • 
buttoned up to his chin, waiting outside in 
the bright semicircle which was thrown 
from the fanlight. Just as I arrived, the 
door was opened, and we were shown up 
together to Holmes' room. 

44 Mr. Henry Baker, I believe," said he, 
rising from his armchair, and greeting his 
visitor with the easy air of geniality which 
he could so readily assume. " Pray take 
this chair by the fire, Mr. Baker. It is a 
cold night, and I observe that your circula- 
tion is more adapted for summer than for 
winter. Ah, Watson, you have just come 
at the right time. Is that your hat, Mr. 
Baker ? " 

44 Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat." 

He was a large man, with rounded shoul- 
ders, a massive head, and a broad, intelligent 
face, sloping down to a pointed beard of 
grizzled brown. A touch of red in nose 
and cheeks, with a slight tremor of his ex- 
tended hand y recalled Holmes' surmise 
as to his habits. His rusty black frock 
coat was buttoned right up in front, with 
the collar turned up, and his lank wrists 
protruded from his sleeves without a sign of 
cuff or shirt. He spoke in a slow staccato 
fashion, choosing his words with care, and 
gave the impression generally of a man of 
learning and letters who had had ill-usage 
at the hands of fortune. 

44 We have retained these things for some 
days," said Holmes, " because we expected 
to see an advertisement from you giving 
your address. I am at a loss to know now 
why you did not advertise." 

Our visitor gave a rather shame-faced 
laugh. 4i Shillings have not been so plenti- 
ful with me as they once were," he re- 
marked. " I had no doubt that the gang 
of roughs who assaulted me had carried off 
both my hat and the bird. I did not care 
to spend more money in a hopeless attempt 
at recovering them." 

44 Very naturally. By the way, about the 
bird, we were compelled to eat it." 

44 To eat it ! " Our visitor half rose from 
his chair in his excitement. 

44 Yes, it would have been no use to any- 
one had we not done so. But I presume 
that this other goose upon the sideboard, 
which is about the same weight and per- 
fectly fresh, will answer your purpose equally 

44 Oh, certainly, certainly ! " answered 
Mr. Baker, with a sigh of relief. 




"Of course, we still have the feathers, 
legs, cTop, and so on of your own bird, so 
if you wish T1 

The man burst into a hearty laugh. 
u They might be useful to me as relics of 
my adventure/' said he, li but beyond that 
I tan hardly see what use the disjecta 
membra of my late acquaintance are going 
to be to me. No, sir, I think that, with 
your permission, I will confine my atten- 
tions to the excellent bird which I perceive 
upon the sideboard.* ' 

Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across 
at me with a slight shrug of his shoulders. 

,% There is your hat, then, and there your 
bird,- * said he, " By the way, would it "bore 
you to tell me where you got the other one 
from ? I am somewhat of a fowl fancier T 
and I have seldom seen a better-grown 
goose. 11 

14 Certainly, sir," said Baker, who had 
risen and tucked his newly-gained property 
under his arm* "There are a few of us 
who frequent the ' Alpha 1 Inn, near the 
Museum — we are to be found in the 
Museum itself during the day, you under- 
stand. This year our good host, Windi- 
gate by name, instituted a goose club, by 
which, on consideration of some few pence 
every week, we were each to receive a bird at 
Christmas, My pence were duly paid, and 
the rest is familiar to you. 1 am much 



indebted to you, sir, for a Scotch bonnet is 
fitted neither to my years nor my gravity." 
With a comical pomposity of manner he 
bowed solemnly to both of us ? and strode off 
upon his way* 

" So much for Mr. Henry Baker/ ' said 
Holmes, when he had closed the door be- 
hind him. "It is quite certain that he 
knows nothing whatever about the matter- 
Are you hungry, Watson ? " 
" Not particularly, 1 ' 

" Then I suggest that we turn our 
dinner into a supper, and follow up this 
clue while it is still hot. 1 ' 
11 By all means.'* 

It was a bitter night, so wc drew on 
our ulsters and wrapped cravats about our 
throats. Outside, the stars were shining 
coldly in a cloudless sky, and the breath of 
the passers-by blew out into smoke like so 
many pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out 
crisply and loudly as we swung through 
the Doctors* quarter, Wimpole-street, 
Ha r ley-street, and so through Wigmore- 
street into Oxford-street. In a quarter of 
an hour we were in Bloomsbury at the 
" Alpha'' Inn, which is a small public- 
house at the corner of one of the streets 
which runs down into Hoi born* Holmes 
pushed open the door of the private bar, 
and ordered two glasses of beer from the 
ruddy -faced, white-aproned landlord. 

" Your beer should be excellent 
if it is as good as your geese/' said 

" My geese ! " The man seemed 

"Yes. I was speaking only half 
an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker , 
who was a member of your goose- 
club/ 1 

" Ah ! yes, I see, But you see, 
sir, them's not our geese," 
" Indeed ! Whose, then ? " 
41 Well, I got the two dozen from 
a salesman in Govent Garden. 17 

" Indeed ! I know some of them. 
Which was it ? " 

" Breckinridge is his name/' 
" Ah ! I don't know him. Well, 
here's your good health, landlord, 
and prosperity to your house, 
Good-night ! n 

" Now for Mr. Breckinridge," he 
continued, buttoning up his coat, 
as we came out into the frosty air, 
u -Remember, Watson, that though 
we have so homely a thing as a 
&0^i9ifflabfr® n end of this chain, 




we have at frie other a man who will cer- 
tainly get seven years' penal servitude, 
unless we can establish his innocence. It 
is possible that our inquiry may but con- 
firm his guilt ; but, in any case, we have a 
line of investigation which has been missed 
by the police, and which a singular chance 
has placed in our hands. Let us follow it 
out to the bitter end. Faces to the south, 
then, and quick march ! " 

We passed across Holborn, down Endell- 
street, and so thrdugh a zigzag of slums 
to Covent Garden Market. One of the 
largest stalls bore the name of Breckinridge 
upon it, and the proprietor, a horsey-looking 
man, with a sharp face and trim side- 
whiskers, was helping a boy to put up the 

44 Good evening. It's a cold night," said 

The salesman nodded, and shot a ques- 
tioning glance at my companion. 

u Sold out of geese, I see," continued 
Holmes, pointing at the bare slabs of 

44 Let you have five hundred to-morrow 

44 That's no good." 

44 Well, there are some on the stall with 
the gas flare." 

44 Ah, but I was recommended to you." 

44 Who by?" 

44 The landlord of the 4 Alpha.' " 

44 Oh, yes ; I sent him a couple of 

44 Fine birds they were, too. Now where 
did you get them from ? " 

To my surprise the question provoked a 
burst of anger from the salesman. 

44 Now, then, mister," said he, with his 
head cocked and his arms akimbo, 4i what 
are you driving at? Let's have it 
straight, now." 

44 It is straight enough. I should like to 
know who sold you the geese which you 
supplied to the 4 Alpha.' " 

44 Well, then, I sha'n't tell you. So now ! " 

44 Oh, it is a matter of no importance ; 
but I don't know why you should be so 
warm over such a trifle." 

44 Warm ! You'd be as warm, maybe, if 
you were as pestered as I am. When I 
pay good money for a good article there 
should be an end of the business ; but it's 
4 Where are the geese ? ' and 4 Who did you 
sell the geese to ? ' and 4 What will you 
take for the geese ? ' One would think 
they were the only geese in the world, to 
hear the fuss that i6 made over them." 


44 Well, I have no connection with any 
other people who have been making in- 
quiries," said Holmes, carelessly. " If you 
won't tell us the bet is off, that is all. But 
I'm always ready to back my opinion on a 
matter of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that 
the bird I ate is country bred." 

44 Well, then, you've lost your fiver, for 
it's town bred," snapped the salesman. 

44 It's nothing of the kind." 
. 44 1 say it is." 

44 1 don't believe it." 

44 D'you think you know more about 
fowls than I, who have handled them ever 
since I was a nipper ? I tell you, all thdse 
birds that went to the 4 Alpha ' were town 

44 You'll never persuade me to believe 

44 Will you bet, then ? " 

44 It's merely taking your money, for I 
know that I am right. But I'll have a 
sovereign on with you, just to teach you not 
to be obstinate." 

The salesman chuckled grimly. 44 Bring 
me the books, Bill," said he. 

The small boy brought round a small 
thin volume and a great greasy-backed one, 
laying them out together beneath the 
hanging lamp. 

44 Now then, Mr. Cocksure," said the 
salesman, 44 1 thought that I was out of 
geese, but before I finish you'll find that 
there is still one left in my shop. You see 
this little book ? " 

44 Well ? " 

44 That's the list of the folk from whom 1 
buy. D'you see ? Well, then, here on this 
page are the country folk, and the numbers 
after their names are where their accounts 
are in the big ledger. Now, then ! You 
see this other page in red ink ? Well, that 
is a list of my town suppliers. Now, look at 
that third name. Just read it out to me." 

44 Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton-road — 
249," read Holmes. 

44 Quite so. Now turn that up in the 

Holmes turned to the page indicated. 
44 Here you are, 4 Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton- 
road, egg and poultry supplier.' " 

44 Now, then, what's the last entry ? " 

44 4 December 22. Twenty-four geese at 
7s. 6d.'" 

44 Quite so. There you are. And under- 
neath ? " 

44 4 Sold to Mr. Windigate of the 44 Alpha" 
at 12s.'" 

44 What have jyca4 -ft© say now ? " 





Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chag- 
rined. He drew a sovereign from his pocket 
and threw it down upon the slab, turning 
away with the air of a man whose disgust 
is too deep for words. A few yards off he 
stopped under a Iamp*post r and" laughed in 
the hearty, noiseless fashion which was 
peculiar to htm. 

u When you see a man with whiskers of 
that cut and the * pink f un T protruding out 
of his pocket, you can always draw him by 
a bet," said he. U I daresay that if I had 
put a hundred pounds down in front of him 
that man would not have given me such 
complete information as was drawn from 
him by the idea that he was doing me on a 
wager. Well, Watson, we are, I fancy, 
nearing the end of our quest, and the only 
point which remains to be determined is 
whether we should go on to this Mrs, Oak- 
shott to-night, or whether we should reserve 
it for to-morrow. It is clear from what that 
surly fellow said that there are others 
besides ourselves who are anxious about the 
matter, and I should - n 

His remarks were suddenly cut short by 
a loud hubbub which broke out from the 
stall which we had just left. Turning round 
we saw a little rat-faced fellow standing in 
the centre of the circle of yellow light 
which was thrown by the swinging lamp, 
while Breckinridge the salesman* framed 

in the door of his stall, was shaking his fists 
fiercely at the cringing figure. 

"I've had enough of you and your 
geese ? M he shouted. U I wish you were all 
at the devil together. If you come pester- 
ing me any more with your silly talk I'll 
set the dog at you. You bring Mrs. Oak- 
shott here and I'll answer her, but what 
have you to do with it ? Did I buy the 
geese off you ? t} 

" No ; "but one of them was mine all the 
same," whined the little man, 

" Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it." 

" She told me to ask you." 

" Well, you can ask the King of Proosia 
for all I care, I've had enough of it. Get 
out of this ! *' He rushed fiercely forward, 
and the inquirer flitted away into the dark- 

" Ha, this may save us a visit to Brixton- 
road," whispered Holmes. u Come with 
me, and we will see what is to be made of 
this fellow," Striding through the scattered 
knots of people who lounged round the 
flaring stalls, my companion speedily over- 
took the little man and touched him upon 
the shoulder. He sprang round, and I 
could see in the gaslight that every vestige 
of colour had been driven from his face. 

MVho are you, then? What do you 
want ? " he asked in a quavering voice* 

11 You will excuse me/' said Holmes 





blandly, " but I could not help overhearing 
the questions which you put to the sales- 
man just now. I think that I could be of 
assistance to you.' 1 

11 You ? Who are you ? How could you 
know anything of the matter ? " 

l( My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is 
my business to know what other people 
don't know, 1 ' 

" But you can know nothing of this ? Ii 

* l Excuse me, I know everything of it. 
You are endeavouring to trace some geese 
which were sold by Mrs, Qakshott, of 

the Hotel 

Pray step 

and I shall 

to tell you 



Brixton-road T to a salesman named Breck- 
inridge, by him in turn to Mr. Windigate, 
of the 4 Alpha; 1 and by him to his club, of 
which Mr* Henry Baker is a member. 1 * 

" Oh, sir, you are the very man whom 
I have longed to meet," cried the little 
fellow, with outstretched hands and quiver- 
ing fingers* ik I can hardly explain to you 
how interested I am in this matter." 

Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler 

which was passing. " In that case we had 

better discuss it in a cosy room rather than 

in this windswept market-place," said 

he. u But pray tell me, before we go 

further j who it is that I have the pleasure of 


The man hesitated for an instant, "My 

name is John Robinson/ 1 he answered, with 

a sidelong glance. 

11 No, no ; the real name/ 1 said Holmes, 

sweetly, "It is always awkward doing 

business with an alias." 

A flush sprang to the white cheeks of 
the stranger. (< Well, 
then/' said he> " my real 
name is James Ryder/' 

H Precisely so. Head 
attendant at 
into the cab, 
soon be able 
everything which 
would wish to know 

The little man stood 
glancing from one to the 
other of us with half- 
frightened| half - hopeful 
eyes, as one who is not 
sure whether he is on the 
verge of a windfall or of 
a catastrophe. Then he 
stepped into the cab, and 
in half an hour we were 
back in the sitting-room 
at Baker-street* Nothing 
had been said during our 
drive, but the high thin 
breathing of our new com- 
panion, and the clasp inga 
and unci asp ings of his 
hands spoke of t he nervous 
tension within him. 

M Here we are ! n said 
Holmes, cheerily, as wc 
filed into the room. " The 
fire looks very seasonable 
in this weather. You look 
cold, Mr. Ryder. Pray 
take the basket chair. I 

will just put on my slippers before we settle 

this little matter of yours. Now, then ! 

You want to know what became of those 

geese ? " 
"Yes, sir. 11 
" Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It 

was one bird, I imagine 

interested — white, with 

the tail." 

Ryder quivered with emotion. 

in which you were 
i black bar across 




can you tell me where it 

sir t he cried, 
went to ? ? ' 

11 It came here/' 

" Here ? " 

" Yes, and a most remarkable bird it 
proved, I don't wonder that you should 
take an interest in it. It laid an egg after 
it was dead^the bonniest, brightest little 
blue egg that ever was seen. I have it here 
in my museum. 1 ' 

Our visitor staggered to his feet, and 
clutched ,the mantelpiece with his right 
hand. Holmes unlocked his strong box, 
and held up the blue carbuncle, which 
shone out like a star, with a cold, brilliant, 
many -pointed radiance. Ryder stood glar- 
ing with a drawn face, uncertain whether 
to claim or to disown it. 

"The game's up, Ryder,'- said Holmes, 
quietly, " Hold up, man, or you'll be into 
the fire. Give him an arm back into his 
chair, Watson, He's not got blood enough 
to go in for felony 
with impunity. Give 
him a dash of brandy. 
So ! Now he looks a 
little more human. 
What a shrimp it is, 
to be sure ! " 

For a moment he 
had staggered and 
nearly fa lien } but the 
brandy brought a 
tinge of colour into 
his cheeks, and he sat 
staring with frightened 
eyes at his accuser. 

u I have almost 
every link in my 
hands, and all the 
proofs which I could 
possibly need, so there 
is little which you 
need tell me. Still 
that little may as well 
be cleared up to make 
the case complete. 
You had heard, Ryder, 
of this blue stone of 
the Countess of Mor- 
car's ? " 

u It was Catherine 
Cusack who told me 
of it/ 1 said he, in a 
crackling voice. 

" I see. Her lady- 
ship's waiting maid* 
Well, the temptation 
of sudden wealth so 

easily acquired was too much for you, as it 
has been for better men before you ; but 
you were not very scrupulous in the means 
you used. It seems to me, Ryder, that 
there is the making of a very pretty villain 
in you. You knew that this man Horner, 
the plumber, had been concerned in some 
such matter before, and that suspicion would 
rest the more readily upon him. What did 
you do, then ? You made some small job 
in my lady's room — you and your confeder- 
ate Cusack — and you managed that he 
should be the man sent for. Then, when 
he had left, you rifled the jewel case, raised 
the alarm, and had this unfortunate man 

arr est ed . Yo u then ■ ' 

Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon 
the rug, and clutched at my companion's 
knees. u For God's sake, have mercy ! M 
he shrieked. u Think of my father! Of 
my mother ! It would break their hearts, 
I never went wrong before ! I never will 





again. I swear it. I'll swear it on a Bible 
Oh, don't bring it into court ! For Christ's 
sake, don't ! " 

44 Get back into your chair ! " said 
Holmes, sternly. " It is very well to cringe 
and crawl now, but you thought little 
enough of this poor Horner in the dock for 
a crime of which he knew nothing." 

" I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the 
country, sir. Then the charge against him 
will break down." 

44 Hum ! We will talk about that. And 
now let us hear a true account of the next 
act. How came the stone into the goose, 
and how came the goose into the open 
market? Tell us the truth, for there lies 
your'only hope of safety." 

Ryder passed his tongue over his parched 
lips. " I will tell you it just as it happened, 
sir," said he. " When Horner had been 
arrested, it seemed to me that it would be 
best for me to get away with the stone at 
once, for I did not know at what moment 
the police might not take it into their 
heads to search mc and my room. There 
was no place about the hotel where it would 
be safe. I went out, as if on some com- 
mission, and I made for my sister's house. 
She had married a man named Oakshott, 
and lived in Brixton-road, where she fattened 
fowls for the market. All the way there 
every man I met seemed to me to be a 
policeman or a detective, and for all that it 
was a cold night, the sweat was pouring 
down my face before I came to the Brixton- 
road. My sister asked me what was the 
matter, and why I was so pale ; but I told 
her that I had been upset by the jewel 
robbery at the hotel. Then I went into 
the back yard, and smoked a pipe, and 
wondered what it would be best to do. 

44 1 had a friend once called Maudsley, 
who went to the bad, and has just been 
serving his time in Pentonville. One day 
he had met me, and fell into talk about the 
ways of thieves and how they could get rid 
of what they stole. I knew that he would 
be true to me, for I knew one or two things 
about him, so I made up my mind to go 
right on to Kilbum, where he lived, and 
take him into my confidence. He would 
show me how to turn the stone into money. 
But how to get to him in safety. I thought 
of the agonies I had gone through in coming 
from the hotel. I might at any moment 
be seized and searched, and there would be 
the stone in my waistcoat pocket. I was 
leaning against the wall at the time, and 
looking at the geese which were waddling 

Digitized by ^OOQJlc 

about round my feet, and suddenly an idea 
came into my head which showed me how 
I could beat the best detective that ever 

" My sister had told me some weeks be- 
fore that I might have the pick of her geese 
for a Christmas present, and I knew that 
she was always as good as her word. I 
would take my goose now, and in it I would 
carry my stone to Kilburn. There was a 
little shed in the yard, and behind this I 
drove one of the birds, a fine big one, white 
with a barred tail. I caught it, and, prizing 
its bill open, I thrust the stone down its 
throat as far as my finger could reach. The 
bird gave a gulp, and I felt the stone 
pass along its gullet and down into its crop. 
But the creature flapped and struggled, and 
out came my sister to know what was the 
matter. As I turned to speak to her the 
brute broke loose, and fluttered off among 
the others. 

44 4 Whatever were you doing with that 
bird, Jem ? ' says she. 

14 4 Well/ said I, 4 you said you'd give 
me one for Christmas, and I was feeling 
which was the fattest.' 

44 Oh," says she, "we've set yours aside 
for you. Jem's bird, we call it. It's the 
big, white one over yonder. There's twenty- 
six of them, which makes one for you, and 
one for us, and two dozen for the market." 

44 Thank you, Maggie," says I ; " but if 
it is all the same to you I'd rather have 
that one I was handling just now." 

44 The oiher is a good three pound 
heavier," said she, "and we fattened it 
expressly for you." 

" Never mind. I'll have the other, and 
I'll take it now," said I. 

44 Oh, just as you like," said she, a little 
huffed. " Which is it you want, then ? " 

44 That white one, with the barred tail, 
right in the middle of the flock." 

44 Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with 

41 Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, 
and I carried the bird all the way to Kil- 
burn. I told my pal what I had done, for 
he was a man that it was easy to tell a 
thing like that to. He laughed until he 
choked, and we got a knife and opened the 
goose. My heart turned to water, for there 
was no sign of the stone, and I knew that 
some terrible mistake had occurred. I left 
the bird, rushed back to my sister's, and 
hurried into the back yard. There was not 
a bird to be seen there. 

44 4 Where nre thty all, Maggie ? ' I cried. 




I( * Gone to the dealer's, Jim/ 

Ui Which dealers?' 

41 * Breckinridge, of Co vent Garden,' 

" i But was there another with a barred 
tail ? ' I asked, fc the same as the one I 
chose ? ' 

iitk Yes, Jem, there were two barred-tailed 
ones, and I could never tell them apart, 1 

u Well, then, of course, I saw it all, and I 
ran off as hard as my feet would carry me 

11 What, sir ! Oh, heaven bless you ! " 
11 No more words. Get out I M 
And no more words were needed, There 
was a rush, a clatter upon the stairs, the 
bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of 
running footfalls from the street. 


to this man Breckinridge ; but he had sold 
the lot at once, and not one word would he 
tell me as to where they had gone. You 
heard him yourselves to-night. Well, he 
has always answered me like that. My 
sister thinks that I am going mad* Some- 
times I think that I am myself. And 
now — and now I am myself a branded 
thief, without ever having touched the 
%vealth for which I sold my character, God 
help me ! God help me ! " He burst into 
convulsive sobbing, with hh face buried in 
his hands. 

There was a long silence, broken only by 
his heavy breathing, and by the measured 
tapping of Sherlock Holmes 1 finger tips 
upon the edge of the table. Then my 
friend rose, and threw open the door, 

** Get out ! *' said he. 

' ( After all, Watson,*' said Holmes, reach- 
ing up his hand for his clay pipe, i( I am 
not retained by the police to supply their 
deficiencies. If Horner were in danger it 
would be another thing, but this fellow will 
not appear against hirn, and the case must 
collapse, I suppose that I am commut- 
ing a felony, but it is just possible that 1 
am saving a souL This fellow will not go 
wrong again. He is too terribly frightened. 
Send him to gaol now, and you make him 
a gaol-bird for life, Besides, it is the season 
of forgiveness. Chance has put in our way 
a most singular and whimsical problem, and 
its solution is its own reward. If you will 
have the goodness to touch the bell, Doctor, 
w T e will begin another investigation, in 
which also a bird will be the chief 

by Google 

Original from 

Sung by Mr. Barton McGuckin. 
Words by George ARTHUR BiNNIE. Music by Franco Leoni. 





P Armonioso* ires. dim. 


p Armonioso* 
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P Legato. 
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Is it for ev • ei, for ev - er we part ? 

Can you thus 

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tfY/H , 





sen ■ tcitce to death a poor heart, 

On - ly for lov - ing y^u faith ■ ful and true, 






x Original from 





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Ah, no, mine own mine own, it must nev - er 

Liv-ing to die in its pas • sion for you? 




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In love's deep despair I cling, I cling to thee ; 

For thou art my 

iiiiii ^^ ^^i ^^^^^g 


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all, my life, soul, and heart, 

So how can I leave thee? how can I part ? 

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««/■ JPiVA passion. 




Ah ! Ah ! let me stay, love, 

Meno mosso. 
,_ lk _J_J_J_4_ n _ h _ 7t _j_ : J K_ r 

bid me not 

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I yield 


lov-ing thee 

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Still must I love 

thee for ev - er and ev 

L_._ t _ r _ 





cft*K f^jc rj JC r&L*r rfcjf: Hbt-r 


)riginal frbm 

-- +- 





Let me draw clos - er, love, here to your side ; 

-rib. 1 1 1 

Close to those 

-#- ■& 



^^}^^t^^ i ^g=i 


lips that so an - gri-ly chide ; 'Tib now love or hate, 'tis now death or 


n. . L- 

ft- -»- 

1 1 I— g 



■*■ :j 

bliss S . . The touchstone of fate . . I'll tempt with this kiss. 

Here to my heart as I , as 

B SJ^=g^=E#^ f S =j 

by Google 

Original from 



^g^^ gfe =!=Nb^^^^ ^g 

I press thee a- gain, 


— I — I — I— 

The fire of my love shall ".uni, shall burn not in vain. 

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^jg ppujg^ g^ 




Ah ! never, nev - er from here shalt thou stray ! 



Mine, thine, for ev - er, for 

4—r— •- 

- ' < —■ *- — in B* ■— *— i^-W-< — | 1 "T ■ — I — *- 










tnf With passion. 



ev - er and aye. 


Ah ! let me stay, love, 

Meno mosso. 

tejjjm gp 







bid me not go ; . . . . 

How can 

I yield 


Ill" ■— 1 I I I,, I I-t-j- , — - T -« # » ^— HH«-^^^- T -m— » — . . — »— ■ — 






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Original from 







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lov-ing thee so? 



thee ! for ■ get * . thec ! f . . 







I- J* J _, 



ah, nev ■ er ! ahj nu* 

ur ! 

Still must I love thee, must 


*-^-=! : 








love thee for ev* er and ev - • - - er. 

, j_ J— *^- [ P-R 1- 



— r ' r '"= r r r-r 

^ Google 

Original from 

N the last century 
there lived in the 
little town of Gail - 

lac, in Languedoc, 
a young merchant, 
\vho t having ar- 
rived at an age when he wished to settle 
down in life, sought a wife. Providing 
she was sweet-tempered, witty, rich, pretty, 
and of good family, he was not particular 
about the rest ; for Michael knew that he 
must be moderate in his desires. Unhappily 
he could not see in Gaillac one who appeared 
worthy of his choice. All the young girls 
had some known fault, not to mention those 
which were not known. At length he was 
told of a young lady of Lavaur endowed 
with innumerable good qualities, and a 
dowry of twenty thousand crowns. This 
sum was exactly that required by Michael 
to establish himself in business ; so he 
instantly fell in love with the young lady 
of Lavaur. He obtained an introduction to 
the family, who liked his appearance, and 
gave him a good reception. But the young 
heiress had many suitors, from whom she 
hesitated to make a definite choice. After 
several discussions it was decided by her 
parents that the contending lovers should 
be brought together at a ball, and after 
having compared them a choice should be 

On the appointed day Michael bet out 
for Lavaur. His portmanteau was packed 
with his finest clothes, an apple-green coat, 
a lavender vest, breeches of black velvet, 
silk stockings with silver trees, buckle 
shoes, powder-box, and a satin ribbon for 
his aueue. His horse was harnessed with 

gay trappings. Futhermorc the prudent 
traveller, not having a pistol to put in his 
holsters, had slipped in a little bottle of 
wine and several slices of almond cake, in 
order to have something to hand to keep 
his courage up. For in reality now that 
the day had come he was in a very anxious 
state, and when he saw in the distance the 
church of Lavaur he felt quite taken aback. 
He slackened the pace of his horse, then 
dismounted, and in order to reflect upon 
what he should do at the ball he entered 
a little wood and sat down on the turf. He 
drew from his holsters, to keep him com- 
pany, the almond cake and the bottle ; the 
latter he placed between his knees, so that 
without thinking of it he varied his reflec- 
tions by sips of wine and mouthfuls of cake. 
These distractions somewhat enlivened him 
and gave him confidence, so much so, that 
he began, to discover in himself a number 
of virtues and excellences which could not 
fail to ensure him the victory. 

The sun having disappeared from the 
horizon he was about to pursue his journey, 
when he heard a sound behind him amongst 
the leaves as of a multitude of little foot- 
steps trampling the grass in tune to the 
music of a flute and cymbals, Astonished, 
he turned round, and by the light of the 
first stars, he perceived a troop of fairies, 
who were running headed by the king, 
Tambourtnet. In their rear, turning user 
and over like a wheel, was the buffoon of 
the little people^ Drak, the fairy. 

The fairies surrounded the traveller, and 
gave him a thousand welcumes and good 
wishes. Michael, who had drank too freely 
not to b^JbQIfW I Welcomed them as old 





acquaintances, and seeing their little eyes 
fixed upon the cake, he began to crumble 
and throw it to them as one would to the 
birds. In spite of their numbers, each one 
had his crumb with the excep- 
tion of Drak, who arrived when 
everyone had finished. Tam- 
bourinet next asked what was 
in the bottle, and passed it from 
hand to hand till it reached the 
buffoon, who, finding it empty, 
threw it away, 

Michael burst out laughing. 

"That is justice, my little 
man," said he to the fairy, 
u For those who arrive late 
there remains nothing but re- 

4i I will make you remember 
what you have just said," cried 
Drak, in anger. 

"And how? M asked the traveller, 
ironically. " Do you think, now, you 
are big enough to revenge yourself ? M 

Drak disappeared without answer- 
ing ; and Michael, after taking leaw 
of Tambourinet, mounted his horse 

He had not gone a hundred paces, 
when the saddle turned and threw 
him roughly to the ground. He arose, 
a little stunned, rebuckled the straps, 
and mounted his horse again. A little 
further on, as he was going over a 
bridge, the right stirrup bent slightly, 
and he found himself thrown in the 
middle of the rivulet. He got out 
again in a very bad humour, and fell 
the third time over the pebbles in the- 
rmae', hurting himself so much that he 
could hardly proceed. He began to 


think if he per- 
sisted in riding 
in the saddle he 
would be unable 
to present him- 
self at all to the 
family of the 
young lady, so he 
decided to ride 
his horse bare- 
backed, and take 
the saddle upon 
nis shoulder. In 
this manner he made his entry into Lavaur, 
amid the loud laughter of the people who 
were sitting at their doors, 

L Laugh ! laugh ! you great stupids," mur- 
mured Michael ; u is it very marvellous 
that a man should carry his saddle when it 
will not carry him ? n 

At length he reached the inn, where he 
alighted, and asked for a room in which to 
change his travelling clothes. 
Having obtained a chamber, 
he proceeded with much care 
to open his port- 
manteau and lay out 
carefully on the bed 
the articles for his 

His first considera- 
tion was whether he 
should powder his 
hair white or yellow. 
Having decided it 
should be white, he 

Onqi»dJpt*3j|FnTHE RIVUT-ST." 




seized the swansdown powder-puff, and 
commenced the operation on the right side. 
But at the moment when he had finished 
that side, he saw that an invisible hand had 
powdered the other side yellow, so that his 
head had the appearance of a half-peeled 
lemon. Michael, stupefied, hastened to mix 

Furious, he finished by putting on his 
travelling boots, and was about to take his 
velvet breeches, when immediately he ap- 
proached the bed , lo ! the breeches began 


the powder with the comb, and finding 
himself too pressed for time to seek to 
think out the reason of the mischance (he 
was always a slow thinker), stretched out 
his hand towards the reel on which the 
satin for his queue was wound. The reel 
escaped from his fingers and fell to the 

Michael went to pick it up, but it seemed 
to roll before him. Twenty times he was 
about to seize it, and twenty times his im- 
patient hands missed it. One would have 
said he looked like a kitten playing with a 
reel At length, seeing that time was 
, goiflgi he lost patience and resigned himself 
to wear his old ribbon. 

He now hastened to put on his morocco 
shoes. He buckled the right, then having 
finished the left, he stooped to admire them, 
but as he did so the right 
buckle fell to the ground. 
He replaced it, but no 
sooner had he done so than 
the left followed suit. He 
had hardly put that right be- 
fore the other one claimed 
his attention again in the 
same manner as before* 
He proceeded thus for 
some time, without being 
able to get both buckles 
fastened together. 

giiized by Google 

of their own accord to walk about 
the room, with many provoking 

Michael, petrified, stood mute, 
with his arm extended, contem- 
plating with a frightened air this 
incongruous dance. But you may 
guess how he looked when he saw 
the vest, coat, and hat join the breeches at 
their respective places, and form a sort of 
counterfeit of himself which commenced to 
walk about and parody his attitudes. 


Original from 



Pale with fear, he drew back to the 
window , but at this moment the Michael- 
esque figure turned towards him, and he 
saw under the cocked hat the grimacing 
face of Drak, the fairy. 

Michael uttered a cry* 

*• It is you, you villain, is it ? I'll make 
you repent of your insolence if you don T t 
instantly give me Dack my clothes." 

after a peregrination of an hour or two 
across this Pyrenees of the cats and swallows, 
Drak gained a high chimney, at the foot of 
which his pursuer was forced to stop. 

Drak, leaning over towards Michael, who 
was out of breath and discouraged, said : 

u You see, my good friend, you have 
forced me to spoil your ball -dress, but, 
happily, I see underneath me the copper of 


So saying, he rushed to take them, but 
the fairy, turning sharply round, ran to the 
other side of the room, Michael was be- 
side himself with anger and impatience, and 
rushed again towards the fairy, who this 
time passed between his legs and rushed 
out on to the staircase. Michael pursued 
him angrily up four flights of stairs till they 
arrived at the garret, where the fairy dodged 
him round and round, and then skipped out 
of the window, Michael, exasperated, took 
the same route. The malicious fairy led 
him from roof to roof t dragging the velvet 
breeches^ the vest and coat in all the 
gutters, to Michael's despair. At length, 

a laundress, where everything can be put 
right for you." 

With these words Drak shook the velvet 
breeches over the chimney-pet. 

u What are you doing, rapcal ? u cried 

li I am sending your dress to the wash ! ,? 
said the fairy. 

And so saying, the vest, coat, and hat 
followed the breeches into the smoking gulf. 

The young gallant sat down upon the 
roof with a cry of despair, But rising im- 
mediately said, with resolution : — 

u Well, 1*11 go to the ball in my travelling 
dress rT 


9 6 


"Hark ! " interrupted the fairy. 

The sound of a bell rang out from a 
neighbouring steeple. Midnight struck ! 
Michael counted the twelve strokes, and 
could not restrain a cry. It was the hour 
designated by the parents when they would 
proclaim to the suitors who had presented 
themselves at the ball their daughter's 
choice for a husband, He wrung his hands 
in despair. 

" Unhappy man that I am ! " he cried. 

" When I arrive all will be over ; she and 
her parents will laugh at me," 

" And that would be justice, my big 
man ! " replied Drak, with a pointed sneer. 
" For you have said yourself, For those who 
arrive late there remains nothing but regreL 
This will serve you, I hope, as a lesson, and 
prevent you another time from laughing at 
the feeble, for from henceforth you will 
know that The smallest are big enough to 
avenge themselves" 

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Original from 

The Queer Side of Things, 

HAVE long been of a 
settled Conviction that 
an unfeigned and Sin- 
cere Abhorrence of 
Violence is among the 
most admirable Orna- 
ments of a worthy Man ; and even 
that it constitutes in itself so notable 
a Claim upon our Respect and Esteem 
as to pass for a Proof of Worth. The 
Spectacle of a peaceful and moderate Man 

Digitized by GoOfilc 

surrounded by Violence and Dernonstra- 
tiveness, of which he still quietly endures 
the attacks, is of all Spectacles at once the 
noblest and the most encouraging to Per- 
sons of Virtue* 

My old and esteemed Friend Sir Ogre 
de Covetous (of whom I lately had Occasion 
to speak) affords a noble Example of such a 
Case ; and, indeed, inasmuch as all Men 
around him appear to hold him in most 
huge Disfavour, I take it they must need 
be of an exceeding evil Disposition, and, by 
consequence, lie himself may with great 
Justice be accounted a Martyr. 

One Day lately, when he had bidden me 
pass away a few Days in a Visit to his 
Country Mansion, I took the Occasion to 
compliment him upon the extensive and 
pleasing Prospect before his Windows ; 
whereupon I could not but observe with 
some Anxiety an Expression of Regret that 
passed upon his Countenance. 

" I will not conceal from you," said he> 
" that there is for me in this Prospect no 
little Cause of Sorrow and Chagrin, seeing 
that, by Reason of its being Visible from 
my Windows, it ought naturally to belong 
to me ; for J hold that, as a freehold Estate 
reaches by Law to the Centre of the Earth t . 
so in like Manner it ought to extend in all 
directions over that Hemisphere, or Half of 
the Earth, of which it is the Central Point*" 





Upon my bringing to his Notice that this 
System would permit the whole Earth to 
accommodate but two Landed Proprietors, 
11 Zounds ! " quoth the good Knight, u and 

which is 


a most just and equitable Arrangement 
surely, save that the other Proprietor 
might not be found so worthy as myself to 
own so large a Parcel of Land. And here- 
in/' said he, reflectively, li I confess to you 
that I perceive a possible Difficulty. 

" Yonder Field, 1 ' continued my friend, 
" is held by a pestilent Baggage of a Fellow 
who must forsooth refuse to yield it up to 
me (and that in despite of it bordering 
upon n Field of mine) for the pitiful Ex- 
cuse that he hath a Title to 
hardly to be upset ; and this 
for all I have repeatedly 
striven to drive him away 
by this and that under- 
hand Means," 

At this sorrowful Re- 
collection my old Friend 
let fall so bitter a Tear 
that I was myself hardly 
put to it but I should 
weep in Concert : but at 
this Moment Sir Ogre 
continued : — 

u But you must know 
that I am the most griev- 
ously put about by a set 
of knavish low Fellows 
that are called - Com- 

moners ! and l The Public/ that will ever 
be trying to hinder me appropriating such 
Parcels of unenclosed Land as I may have 
a Fancy for ; and this under the lame Pre- 
text that these Parcels are theirs by Law ! 

11 As if, forsooth, the Law had been de* 
signed to protect the rights of Fellows that 
have no Money to spend on Lawsuits ! " 
And at this the" worthy Knight was moved 
to so severe a Taking*on that I feared he 
was like to be seized with an Apoplexy ; 
but he presently continued : — 

" I am myself a Man of a most Peaceable 
Disposition (having indeed been selected as 
a Justice of the Peace on that account), and 
have no Desire but to live quietly in 
Harmony with my Neighbours, appropria- 
ting such of their Land as I may desire, 
from Time to Time, to possess myself of ; 
yet — so pestilent a Perverse n ess is there in 
the Nature of others — my Neighbours will 
in no Wise be favouring this Plan ; but 
must be for ever striving to resist me* and 
that with open Violence and Destruction ! 
As it is my earnest Desire to compass the 
Enclosure of their Lands after a quiet 
Fashion, to the avoiding of all unseemly 
Riot and Violence, so they of their part 
may by no means be persuaded to a like 
Temperateness of Demeanour, but will be 
destroying the Fences I have put up ; and 
this with a most unseemly noise of Break- 
ing of Timber, which is to me of all Noises 
the most abhorrent." 

At this Discourse of the good old Man I 

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fell into a profound, curious Speculation 
upon the Difference between him that con- 
structs, and him that destroys ; and very 
hugely to the Disadvantage of this Latter ; 
seeing that Construction (that is, the Devot- 
ing of our human Skill to the Formation 
of useful Products from those Materials 
with which the Beneficence of Nature has 
provided us), is at all Times a laudable 
Work ; while the Undoing of these Products 

"SIR ogres ancestor. 

is but a deplorable Retrogression toward 
Savagery, Thus I hold that he who con- 
structs is ever more worthy than is he who 
destroys ; and by Consequence the En- 
closer (or Constructor of Fences), than the 
rightful Owner (or Destroyer of Fences). 

Sir Ogre himself has frequently shown 
me in the Parish Church a stained Window 
that is believed to represent an Ancestor of 
his in the Act of slaying a Fence De- 
stroyer ; which seems to put me in the 

I was aroused from this Speculation by 
Sir Ogre's inviting me to take a Walk with 
him upon the Pieces of Land which he had 

lately added to his Property ; and I was 
filled with Admiration at the Ingenuity with 
which his Operations were carried on* 
il For," said he, with that humorous Twinkle 
in his Eye which is the Sign or Patent of 
a good Man in those Moments when he 
feels that he has done his Duty to himself, 
M you must know that I will often be send- 
ing one of my Fellows on an obscure 
Night to fix a low Wire along the Ground 
where I propose to afterward erect a Fence ; 
and this for the Reason, that I hold it wiser 
to carry on the Work which I have set 
myself with as little Fuss and Ostentation 
as may be possible ; being unwilling to pro- 
voke in the Commoners that deplorable 
Resentment and Anger which the Sight of 
my Operations in actual Progress would be 
calling forth," 

I here fell into a profound and improving 
Speculation upon the evident Worth of a 
Man who displays so delicate a Considera- 
tion for others, that he is of a Mind to 
avoid the setting before them any Tempta- 
tion to an Outbreak of those violent Pas- 
sions which must always be so harmful to 
Themselves. I was awakened from this 
Reverie by falling suddenly into a deep 
Ditch full of Mire, by reason of having 
tripped over one of Sir Ogre's Wires ; the 
good old Man being at this so mightily 
diverted that he was fain to leave me with 




but my Heels sticking up out of the Mud 
for some ten Minutes while he enjoyed his 

My Attention was now called to a Com- 
pany of rough Fellows that had fallen to 
upon a new Fence near at Hand which my 
old Friend had lately put up ; whereat Sir 
Ogre very properly requested 
a Constable that was pacing 
to take his Note-book and jot 


down upon it the Names of these Fellows ; 
and, upon my inquiring of the Course 
which he purposed to take in regard to 
them, he addressed to me the following 
Words : — 

u It's my Purpose to carry these pestilent 
Knaves and niGdt impudent Ruffians before 
the Bench oi Justices at Brentford: for you 
must know that these Fellows are within 
their legal Rights in what they now do : 
but these good Justices of Brentford have 
so nice and subtile a Sense of Logic, that 
they will, for all they must needs acquit 
the Defendants of all Offence, yet put upon 
them a fine for the Offence which they have 
not committed ; by which means these 
Brentford Justices have acquired a very 
favourable high Reputation among all Men 
of Sense/ 1 

At this I fell into a most deep pleasing 
Speculation upon the Wisdom of these 
Brentford Justices, who indeed — however 
it may seem to the ignorant and thought- 
less — carry out the very Spirit of our Laws : 
for the Purpose of all our Laws is that Men 
shall put an Action the one on the other, 

and pay the Costs of it ; he that shall be 
able to pay more Costs than his Fellows 
being adjudged in the Right : wherefore it 
is reasonable and fitting that One who hath 
broken a Fence, and is adjudged in the 
Right in so doing, shall pay for it by way 
of a Testimony or Sign that he is in the 
Right. For as a Man cannot 
be adjudged in the Right 
except he pay ; so he that 
pays not must surely be in 
the Wrong ; which no Man 
would desire to be. 

We now began to come 
at every Turn upon this or 
that Company of lewd Fel- 
lows that would be engaged 
either in tearing up a Wire 
that Sir Ogre had planted j 
or in breaking down a Fence ; 
or in pulling down some 
Notice -Board of his that 
warned all and sundry from 
passing by that Way, or ad- 
vertised a Piece of Land to 
be let on building Leases : 
and all this at Times with 
no little Stir and Clamour 
and cracking of Woodwork. 
Nay, I marked a certain 
Group that had made a 
Bonfire of some Notice- 
Boa rds ; and these Fellows 
had the Effrontery to invite the good Knight 
to warm himself by it, with unfitting Sar- 
casm : all of which I could perceive caused 

Original from' 



my old Friend no slight Dudgeon. ''But 
it will go hard," said he, M but they shall 
smart for it properly ! n 

I could not but admire the Industry of 
this worthy Man, that had gotten together 
so large an Estate at so small Outlay ; for 
Sir Ogre assured me that he had inherited 
from his Father but a Field of ten Acres 
in those Parts, having acquired the other 
ten thousand Acres by a sedulous and 
unflagging Pursuit of the Plan I have 
described , w i thout so 
much as purchasing a 
Foot of it, 

I was much interested 
in watching the Result 
of a Charge that had 
been preferred against 
a certain Fellow that 
was notorious in the 
Neighbourhood for un- 
seemly Resistance at 
Law against those that 
possessed more Money 
than himself, and so 
were in the Right. 

It seemed that this 
Fellow had taken a 
Rabbit upon a Piece of public Land but 
lately enclosed by Sir Ogre. On this E el low 
being brought up before Sir Ogre and 
charged with this Offence, I was taken with 
a great Admiration for my Friend's Freedom 
from Bias, and great Desire to do Justice ; 
for he would by no Means hear a Word of 
what the Defendant had to say, fearing 
that in the Flurry of the Position he might 
haply incriminate himself still more deeply, 
but dealt with the Case summarily, pass- 


ing upon the Fellow no harder Sentence 
than one Year with hard Labour ; which, 
I take it, was but a slight Punishment to 
undergo, for a low Fellow that had no means* 
That Night there was a great To-Do in 
the Village hard by ; for there was to be a 
Burning of an Image or Effigies of the 
good Knight, upon the Pretext that he had 
put up a Barrier upon a Path that had 
been a public Way for Centuries ; where- 
upon Sir Ogre lost no time in having the 
Fellows locked up for 
Causing an Obstruc- 
tion ; ' For," says he, 
" the Roads and Ways 
are intended for the 
Public to pass along 
them ; and this pro* 
per Use of them is 
not to be hindered by 
this or that Rascal 
that hath a mind to 
turn them to his own 

Such is ever the 
Modesty of Sir Ogrej 
that he is by no Means 
of a Mind to make a 
Figure in his neighbourhood; and, indeed, 
he protested to me when on the Subject 
of the burning of the Effigies^ that the 
making of a Figure is to him a Matter of 

I am now content to leave the Reputa- 
tion of the good old Knight in the hands of 
the Public ; being of a most certain Con- 
viction that, whatever the Voice of Slander 
may be inclined to speak of it, it can in no 
way suffer Deterioration. 

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Original from 






HE articles entitled " Humours 
of the Post Office," which 
appeared in our numbers for 
last May and June, went far 
to prove that the ingenuity 
and resource of our lost Office 
authorities arc matter for national pride and 
gratification. But the instance which we 
are now in a position to present, and which 
is , perhaps j the most extraordinary of all, 
was not then in our hands, 

A Norwegian artist, during his stay in 
London, was one morning passing through 
Hyde Park, when his attention was attracted 
by a spectacle with which many Londoners 
are perfectly familiar— Mr. J. Pratt, the 
well-known dog-fancier, taking his string of 
Skye terriers abroad for air and exercise. 
The artist, after his return to Norway, 
called the scene to mind, and was anxious 
to acquire a specimen of the breed. He 
knew neither the owner's name or address* 

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but, witn an implicit trust in the ingenuity 
of the Post Office, which the result 
thoroughly justified, he took up his pen and 
despatched a letter in an envelope, of which 
the above is a reproduction in fac-simile. 
The letter was delivered in due course to 
Mr. J. Pratt r Gloucester-terrace, Hyde 
Park. The contents of the letter were as 
follows :■ — 

u Norway, Aug. 25, 1885, 
u Sir, — When in London a short time 
ago I saw a very fine team of Skye terriers 
in Hyde Park. I inquired of a policeman 
if he knew the owner. He said the owner 
lived near Paddington Station, and so I 
send this to that district. Should this find 
you, will you please inform me if such dogs 
can be purchased, and where ? Please 
communicate to me here at once, and I will 
call on you on my return to London shortly* 
u I am, yours truly, 

" Alfred Stenthulz." 

Original from 




The accompanying picture shows what can be done with snow, by those who care to exercise their powers 
of modelling, md produce something more natural in appearance than the familiar old Ct Snow Man, 1 ' built up 
after the figure of a Lowther Arcade Noah. Daring a lull in the severe frosts of last winter, two ladies (amateurs, 
who had never had a lesson in modelling), with the assistance of only a shovel and pair of sdssorc, erected 
and modelled the H Snow Lady " in a garden near Pangboume. No foundation of any kind was used, and no 
sticks or wires were concealed under the figure for the purpose of supporting; head, body, or arms. An enlarge- 
ment of the original photograph was shown at the Photographic Exhibition during last autumn, and gave rise 
to many remarks, sage and otherwise. A large number of those who looked at it pronounced it as " No doubt 
very cleverly got up — but all humbug ! " " Real snow 1 Not a bit of it ! Quite impossible I " 

by LiOOglC 




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OttL AW UJFij£*L 

" PUG." 

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vA ^wtTw, Vj*~ 


**4 jr * ~ ?.u ' 

• TW 11 ■ r^'HJBt^B^^ 'r-fc. '• 


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Original from 




1 »!f *K "Vt^' * 1 


riouu business! 

grandpapa: "snow on the ground and 


landlady: m it's only tiw winder a bit loose, sir. i'll soon 
fi5h yejt things out ok the snow." 


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Original from 

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Original from 

The Saving of Karl Reichenberg. 

By Arthur Page 


HE streets of Seville were 
almost deserted ; here and 
there a solitary human being 
hurried as fast as the heat 
would allow to his home, for 
the sultry air of the even- 
ing gave warning of the approach of a 
storm. Only Dr. Karl Reichenberg felt 
neither the loneliness of the streets, nor the 
hush before the tempest ; his wild eyes 
gleamed with excitement, and his steps were 
now hurried, now slow and uncertain. 

Science is to her children as the apple of 
their eye, and they pursue her even when 
she hides herself and baffles their long re- 
searches. But science has her rewards also, 
and Dr. Karl had seen a great reality grow- 
ing out of the deep obscurity in which he 
had groped so long. He who had toiled 
through sleepless nights, burning the mid- 

by LiOOgle 

night oil, earning from his neighbours the 
name of wizard, had triumphed at last, he 
had made a glorious discovery, and had seen 
the Unseen* Wherefore his heart was glad 
within him, his brain was mad with a 
whirling ecstasy of joy, his limbs trembled, 
and his feet could scarce bear him. Was 
not he, the poor German Jew, a stranger in 
the tents of the proud Spaniard, who 
despised him or else feared, was not he 
now exalted and his name great among the 
nations ? 

Suddenly a hand was laid upon his 
shoulder, and a aeep sepulchral voice 
uttered these words, " The Holy Mother 
Church hath need of thee ! M Turning , he 
saw two sinister figures clothed in sombre- 
hued robes which, reaching down to the 
ground T rose to a point above the head, 
entirely concealing form and face, except for 


] 12 


the eyelet holes, A strong fit of shudder- 
ing seized the poor man, he saw in those 
two weird forms the familiars of the Holy 
Inquisition. His tongue clave to the roof 
of his mouth, and at a sign from one of 
them, unable to resist, he silently followed 
with tottering feet. All round the high 
walls of the houses rose menacingly, not a 
light in any window \ above, the clouds 
hung low and lurid, 
while a deep mut- 
tering of distant 
thunder filled the 
still air. Onward 
his ghostly attend- 
ants bme him, 
seeming to glide 
without percep- 
tible effort over 
the rough flagged 
pavement, his own 
h c a v y fc e t giving 
forth a muttered 
resonance on the 
pathway. In the 
distance he heard 
a sound or heavy 
tramping and loud 
talking ; it was the 
watch patrolling 
the streets. Nearer 
and nearer they 
came, till he saw 
the gleam of the 
lantern at the 
further end of the 
street, and a sudden 
hope of escape 
rushed to his head, leaving him breathless 
and half stunned. He would call upon 
them as they passed, and offer them much 
money, all he possessed, to release him from 
these devils. Now the watch was close 
upon them, was passing, he could plainly 
hear one telling some coarse joke and the 
rude laughter it drew forth from his com- 
rades ; he strove to call out, but his parehed 
lips refused to form the words, and in a 
moment they had turned a corner. All was 
silent again. 

On they sped, this strange company, 
through the inky pall that overspread the 
city, always passing on, till it seemed to the 
wretched prisoner that he and his voiceless 
companions had travelled from the begin- 
ning of time, and would do so till the crack 
of doom, when, on a sudden, his guards 
stopped before a low doorway set in a va >\ 
dead wall, which reached upwards to the 

Digitized by G< 

clouds. On this door one of the familiars 
beat a stealthy knock, it swung open in* 
wards and closed behind them ; the dark- 
ness of without was changed for the 
gloom of within. They had now entered a 
long corridor, at the further end of which a 
lamp hung, shedding a tiny twinkling light; 
through the whole length of this passage 
the familiars led Rcichenberg, down a long 


flight of steps ; down into deeper and 
clammier passages, where he could feel the 
icy moisture dripping from the walls, till at 
last a door was opened, he was pushed into 
the darkness, and the door swung to 
heavily. He listened in a dull unhearing 
way to the grating sound of heavy bolts 
drawn to, and he heard the footsteps of the 
two familiars die away in the distance. 
Then his voice and strength returned to 
him, and he rose and threw himself against 
the door of his cell, screeching and foaming 
at the mouth. For an hour he raved on, 
and then, overcome by exhaustion, he sank 
down on the dark, cold floor of his cell. 
Hours, days, months passed, he knew not 
how long'; time had no more an existence 
to him, for no light of day could pierce the 
solid masonry which surrounded him + But 
ever there came at intervals footsteps that 
approached^ a grating opened, a loaf of 
Original from 




bread and a jar of water were thrust in, and 
the footsteps died away in the distance. 
Sometimes he would sleep and dream wild, 
fitful dreams of unclouded sky and green 
fields ; once he dreamed of his discovery, 
and awoke trembling, with great drops of 
sweat upon him. Then the madness cf 
despair seized him, and again he engaged in 
hopeless strife with the cold and passive 
dungeon walls. But this fit lasted but a 
short time ; day by day he grew weaker, 
and the power of speech went from him, and 
he lay down to die. 

One day he heard more footsteps. They 
approached, and stopped before his door. 
It was opened, and the yellow light of a 
lantern filled the cell. Reichenberg did 
not move, only he raised his sunken eyes 
as a voice, soft and low, addressed him : — 

" Son, thy presence is required elsewhere. 
Rise and follow me ! " 

The wretched man raised himself with 
difficulty, and two familiars assisted him 
tenderly up the interminable steps and 
along the endless corridor, while ever the 
lantern preceded them ; and the soft voice 
spoke again : — 

" Be of good cheer, my son, thy trials are 
almost ended ! " 

Another door was reached and opened. 
The Jew stood in a lofty, vaulted chamber, 
dimly lighted by three silver lamps hanging 
from the roof. At a table on the further 
side sat two men clothed in the black garb 
of the Inquisition, the table before them 
being covered with large manuscript 
volumes, and between them was a raised 
throne, unoccupied as yet. In a dark 
corner stood a brazier of burning coals, and 
over it crouched a wizened, bent figure, its 
face hidden by a hideous mask, occupied in 
twisting and turning in the flames some 
curious steel instruments. The whole place 
seemed to be filled with the echo of the 
last victim's groans. 

He who had spoken in the gentle voice 
now took his place on the raised throne 
behind the table, and lifted a pair of wistful, 
brown eyes full of suffering and pity. Then 
Reichenberg perceived that he was in the 
presence of the Inquisitor-General, Don 
Philippo del Alguarez, and for very fear 
had almost fallen. Don Alguarez addressed 
him in a smooth, even voice : — 

"Reverend Doctor Karl Reichenberg, 
thou art a Jew and a heretic. Is it not so ? " 

The poor wretch tried to ^peak, but could 
not, and simply moved his head, while the 
Inquisitor proceeded : — 

by Google 

" Thou hast had dealings with the evil 
one in divers manners and places, and 
wouldst have sold thyself body and soul to 
him. But the Holy Mother Church lets 
not her sons thus lose their immortal souls ; 
wherefore hath she imposed punishment 
upon the carnal flesh, thereby to snatch 
their spiritual being from destruction. 
Satan hath desired thee, my son, but thy 
sufferings, which have endured but a little 
time, have freed thee from the meshes of 
thy wickedness, and now thou art free," 
and at the words a tender smile illumined 
his face. > 

Reichenberg had listened without hear- 
ing ; but at the word u free " he started, 
stood upright, and stumbled towards the 
door. But Don Philippo raised his arm, 
and gently waved him back. 

" One other word have I yet to speak to 
thee. Seeing how great a mercy the Holy 
Church hath extended to thee, she requireth 
but a slight service at thy hands before thou 
goest forth ; surely thou wilt not refuse 
to render thanks for thy great deliver- 

Rising from his seat he slowly macle his 
way to the door, and, with the words, 
" Follow me," passed from the chamber and 
into the coriidor. 

With a strange joy in his eyes, the Jew 
followed him, stumbling again and again in 
his eagerness, till they came to a high- 
roofed, spacious chapel, through whose 
stained windows the glorious sunlight 
streamed in. The prisoner drew a long 
breath ; this was the living world ; he had 
been raised from the grave. 

The chapel was filled with a crowd of 
monks and priests, all waiting for the ser- 
vice to begin. Through these the Inqui- 
sitor led him, right up to the organ, where, 
taking him by the hand, he spoke again, 
still in the sweet mournful tones. 

u Son, 'tis required of thee 10 take upon 
thyself a menial office, yet one that will 
show thy gratitude to Heaven ; for thou 
must needs work the bellows of this organ. 
But," and here he led the Jew to a small 
cell, lit by a single lamp, u thou must not k*t 
the wind fail, or surely a terrible doom will 
be thine ; for yon great block " (pointing to 
a black mass which seemed to hang from 
the roof) " will descend and crush out thy 
life. But fear not, thy task is light, and 
soon shalt thou be free in the light of 

With these words, he closed the massive 
cage-like door upon the Jew, bolting and 





barring it securely, Reichenberg seized 
the wooden lever, and with a convulsive 
energy depressed and raised it. From 
without there came the sweet, deep tones 
of the voluntary ; then this ceased, and 
the whole congregation joined in the 
triumphant notes of the Gloria in exvehis. 
Gradually, to Ins horror, Ruchenberg found 
that his frame, never physically strong \ had 
been so wasted by the horrors of confine- 
ment that he could hardly keep the little 
leaden register below the mark that showed 
the wind in the bellows was exhausted. To 
his fevered brain the cell was peopled with 
devils taunting him, pulling up that little 
piece of lead on which his life hung, till it 
seemed to fly up towards the mark, and 
pointing with mocking gestures to the 
overhanging mass ; and t ttrangest of all, 
they every one had the same face, a coun- 
tenance grave and melancholy, lit up by 
a sad, sweet smile, the face of the Grand 

Seized with a sud- 
den despair, he fell 
down on the ground, 
and lay almost in a 
faint, gazing with a 
horrid stare at the 
great weight above. 
The register had 
reached the mark, the 
moment had come, 

when, with a spring, the Jew hurled him- 
self on the wooden arm, and, with re- 
doubled strength^ again filled the bellows 
with air. Then the triumphal chant 
changed to the soft tones of the Nunc 
dimittis ; the leaden register moved but 
slowly up the wall, and Reichenberg knew 
his task was almost ended. But the lever 
seemed to have grown heavier, he could 
hardly move it ; he could not, his arm was 
weaker than a child's, and he sank back on 
the ground. With his eye fixed on the 
register he saw it mount slowly up to the 
mark, while the aweet chords rose and fell 
outside in the chapel. It had almost 
reached the top. He strove to rise, fell back, 
and the notes of the last chord ended in 
a despairing shriek) drowned by the fall of 
a heavy mass. 

The door opened, and the Inquisitor 
entered with four familiars. 

11 His task is fin- 
ished and he is free. 
Take him from un- 
der and carry forth 
his body, and lay it in 
con secrated grou nd , 
for the Holy Mother 
Church hath saved 
his soul ; " and Don 
Philippo turned 

by Google 

Original from 

Illustrated Interviews. 

tt'Jtii U. i'ilUlt*. **s] 

tHt COKKltKjH. 

./.■■,..■.■ f it Frit. 

OU could not readily escape 
noticing the residence of the 
famous specialist in Harley- 
street, Cavendish ■ squarg* 
Irrespective of the brass 
plate on the door, the some- 
what gloomy appearance of the exterior is 
relieved by trailing ivy round the windows, 
the clinging tendrils of which hang over 
the balcony. But the distinctly dismal 
impression created by " outside appear- 
ances Jt disappears when once the door has 
been opened, and opportunities are afforded 
of exploring the u interior. 7 ' Interest is 
gathered round every object one meets. 
Sir Morell's whole life has been a veritable 
run of professional adventure, and, much 
of his work being really historical, one 
expects to find about the place many 
reminiscences of his brilliant career — a 
career rendered more striking from the 
indisputable fact that incessant work, and 
purpose not to be turned aside, has had as 
much to do in winning him the position he 
now holds in the world of medicine as the 
marvellous skill he has shown in the 
diagnosis of the various forms of disease to 

which he has given his particular atten- 

Immediately on entering, just opposite a 
convenient weather -dial, is a portrait of the 
Empress Frederick* She has written an 
inscription on it in pencil— " To Sir More It 
Mackenzie, the faithful and devoted friend 
and medical attendant of the Emperor, 
Frederick III. of Germany. Victoria, 
Charlottenburg, May, 1888/'' The portrait 
is an excellent photograph of the oil 
painting by Angeli which hangs in the 
Royal Academy at Berlin, It was taken 
soon after our Princess Royal first went to 
Germany ; but, though painted so many 
years ago, it is still thought to give the 
expression of the august personage better 
than any modern portrait. On passing 
through another door a long corridor is 
entered, From this corridor access is ob- 
tained to the library, to the dining room, 
and two consulting- rooms, In a corner of 
this vestibule is a fine specimen of carving 
in oak ; the exterior presents a grand cabinet 
dated 1647, within is a lift communicating 
with the kitchrn. At intervals along 
the cor^^Ep-^^gp^f?^^^^ number 



of works of art of importance— an etching, 
by Hcrkomer, of the Earl of Londes- 

[ i ijjuwiujj w i min i i ... i nn i 

/'. j t iitci bv iht] 

F ft V1T- Tf ECE r * M'W#*i FrttffT dt 0/ O'trma **jf. 

borough, a full-length oil painting of the 
master of the house, whilst the companion 
picture to this is 
an admirable 
likene&s of Sir 
Morel Ts father in 
old-time black 
cravat and cut- 
away coat, A 
portrait group of 
tht 1 Laryngologi- 
cal Section of the 
11 Int cr national 
Medical Con- 
gress, Copen- 
hagen, i 884," 
shows Sir Morell 
in the centre, 
having on either 
ule of him Dr. 
W« Meyer, of 
Copenhagen , 
and Professor 
Schnitzler, of 
Weill, Close by 
is Leslie Ward's 
famous cartoon of 

Mr- George Grossmith and Mr, C irney 
Grain — an 1 near this is a painting by a 
Royal brush — a group of fruit and 
antique flagon. The inscription 
reads: u Her Majesty the Km- 
press Frederick of Germany, Prin- 
cess Royal of England, Presented 
by Her Majesty to Sir Morell 

Just a^ I am entering the dining* 
room a fine dachshund of rich 
brown colour comes dashing along 
the passage. It answers to the 
name of 4i Moritz/* and follows us 
into the room, where it perches 
on its hind legs on one of the 
chairs as soon as the repast is 
brought in. w Moritz T1 is a twin. 
14 Max " T was its birth -mate- They 
both belonged to the late Emperor 
Frederick. ** Moritz " was sent as 
a present from the late Emperor 
to Sir Morell j whilst il Max " found 
a home on the Royal hearthrug of 
the Princess Victoria of Prussia, 
The dining-room is very spscious, 
and at one end the ceiling is sup- 
ported by two massive red granite 
pillars. The mantelpiece is of 
marble exquisitely carved, over 
which is an oil painting by the 
late George Chapman of one of 
Sir Morel] 's daughters— Mrs. McKenna — 
as a child in a white frock tied up with 


Ttin'tf fVf. 



From a Photo. &r) 


a great red sash, romping with a black 
retriever. Excellent pictures are also here 
«jf Sir Morell a^d Lady Mackenzie, The 
furniture is of oak, and there are some 
grand cabinets on which are many beautiful 
bronzes. The outlook from the dining- 
room is not calculated to inspire one with 
rural thoughts — chimney-pots and ugly, 
far-fronwnteresting brick walls abound ; 
for which reason the glass in the window 
is embossed and 
the view is lost. 

Ascending the 
staircase — which 
i? decorated in 
Pompeian style, 
the centre of each 
pi aq ue eont a i n i n g 
beautifully drawn 
and delicately 
coloured figures 
—the drawing- 
room is reached. 
This is really 
two apartments 
thrown into one. 
Immense vases of 
everlasting grass, 
with ivy playing 
about the wall, 
are everywhere 
— bowls and bas- 
kets, dishes and 
trays, are full of rrvmaphixe ,bv\ 

flowers, fur Sir 
Morell is fond of 
this form of natu- 
ral decoration. 
The ca hi nets are 
filled withChincsc 
ware. On one is 
a case of curios 
— silver daggers, 
crosses, Japanese 
wings, snuff- 
boxes, goblets, 
and, if I mistake 
not , a tiny model 
in silver of 
" Morita." Just 
by stands an 
equally tiny sil- 
ver chariot drawn 
by diminutive 
oxen. Many 
tokens of Royal 
favour are here 
[&mu<tFn> in the form of 
portraits. Pic- 
tures of members of Sir Morell 's family 
are scattered about. The hoof of a horse 
used as a match-box has an engraved plate 
upon it which reads, " Beauty — January, 
1878." M Beauty M was a great favourite of 
its master and a family pet. His memory 
is thus preserved. I am reminded that Sir 
Morell breaks-in all his own harness 
horses, and that he never drives animals 
under six years of age. 

THE :ii..Av. iv '.:,"<• 


[Elliott & Frv- 



f^vm a Photo, btf] 


[tillioit ^ lr e . 

At the far end of the drawing-rcom is a 
rockery, where the greenest of ferns and 
indoor plants are thriving in abundance. 
A heavy Sevres vase is pointed out to me 
near the windows which overlook Harley- 
street. t4 It was a present," said Sir Morell, 
" from a lady 
who was suffer- 
ing from cancer. 
I only saw her 
once. When she 
died I received 
a note from her 
executors saying 
that she had be- 
queathed me a 
vase, and if I 
would send down 
to Sydenham I 
might have it. 
I sent down a 
man for this pur- 
pose. He returned 
empty-handed — 
he could not move 
it. Finally I de- 
spatched three 
men, who brought 
it up." 

Curiosity is 

inseparable from an eminent doctor's 
consulting-room, and, seeing that Sir 
Morell has two such apartments, it is 
probable that my curiosity was two* 
fold as I hurried down the stairs into 
the long corridor again* Both of these 

/Vtfm a Hufto, ty] 






rooms are as distinctly different as pos- 

The first one I entered is probably the 
more frequently used. It was in this room 
that the late Emperor Frederick used to sit 
when engaged with SirMorelL Although a 
remark ably foggy day, the room was fragrant 
irith the perfume of roses ; blossoms from 
Nice were in vases on the writing-table, and 
in many an odd corner ; flowers w r ere even 
mi ogled with the shiny instruments neatly 
set out en another table, By this table 
I stood for a moment, and looked at a 
high-backed oaken chair upholstered in 

Majesty the Queen , the Empress Frederick, 
and the Marchioness of Lome, Hanging 
on the walls and on various supports are 
etchings of Mr. Irving, Miss Ellen Terry as 
Marguerite arid Portia \ Mr, George Lewis, 
Mr. Edmund Yates, M. Jean de Reske, 
Madame Patti, Madame Albani, Mr. and 
Mrs. Kendal in (l The Ironmaster, '■' Mr. 
and Mrs, Bancroft, and Lady Monckton, all 
of whom at some time or another have 
entered this room. On a single shelf run- 
ning round the apartment are books. Many 
are the curios to be seen — quaint old 
watches, old-fashioned china, and other 

FVtmt « 1 ' h • 1 to. bit] 



brown leather. It was the chair in which 
the Emperor Frederick used to sit. 

The portraits are countless. On the 
mantel -board — where, by the fireplace, a pair 
of fine young foxes are ingeniously utilised 
for the purpose of supporting a wastepaper 
basket— are autographed pictures of Her 

much -sought-after knick-knacks. Here is 
a silent clock, of which never a single 
tick is heard, and which requires winding 
but once a year. The inscription on an 
immense silver bowl mounted on an oak 
pedestal , says ; " To Sir Morell Mackenzie, 
M.D., a grateful tribute of admiration and 




regard from those whose names arc inscribed 
in this bowl. July 6, 1 8bq. ?1 Inside the bowl 
are exact fae-simile signatures of the sub- 
scribers, and amongst those which glisten 
I notice those of Ellen Terry, Henry 
Irving T John Hare, Tom Thorne T Henry 
Neville, W. H. Kendal, Wilson Barrett, 
Brandon Thomas, John Billingtoji, and 
Kdwrrd Terry, Inside this case are a num- 
ber of presents from patients, whilst a 
portrait of om of Sir Morell's daughters 
finds a place on the glass top- 
Possibly, however, the most interesting 
part of the room is that nearest the histori- 
cal chair already referred to + Just beneath 
a large picture of Madame Pauline Lucca is 
a crimson plush frame, containing a por- 
trait of the late Emperor Frederick in the 
same uniform as he wore on the occasion 
of Her Majesty's Jubilee. Another por- 
trait of him bears date of 1863, and shows 
him in Highland dress, whilst close by are 
portraits > taken some years ago, of his 

i':\in a pkoto. ?>>,■]■ 


three daughters, dressed in plain white 
muslin dresses. , 

Two important letters are framed here 
in gilt supports, surmounted with Royal 
coronets. One is in German, written on 
buff notepaper, with a deep black edging. 
It was from the Queen to her late son-in- 
law. Although I am not permitted to give 
the contents of it, I may say that it is to the 
purport that Her Majesty intends conferring 
a knighthood upon Sir Morell, whilst the 

other matter impressively shows the love 
Her Majesty had for the latcKrnperor. The 
other letter — part of which only is shown — 
is from the Emperor to Sir Morell. The 
Emperor used very large -sized note, edged 
with black, and wrote a remarkably bold, 
clear hand. It reads : — 

^Charlottenburg, April 10, 1888, 
ll Mv Dear Sir Morell, — You were 
called to me by the unanimous wish of my 
German medical attendants. Not knowing 
you myself , I had confidence in you in con- 
sequence of their recommendation. But I 
soon learnt to appreciate you from personal 
experience. 11 

The second consul ting -room is reached 
by passing through a small dispensary. On 
the white walls of this substantial medicine 
cabinet are rough notes by Sir Morell — - 
pencil reminders to see such and such 
patients, This second apartment is known 
as "The Gothic Room "■ — every article of 
furniture in it is of that period. It is almost 

like entering a 
small chapel — 
there is an air of 
quietude about 
the place almost 
approaching sane- 
tity which is most 
impressive* The 
pictures on the 
walls are Scrip- 
tural j principally 
of the Italian 
school, At the far 
end is a stained 
glass window, at 
the foot of which 
is a lappet with 
embroidered lace 
hangings. Gilt 
vases and candles 
arc set out on the 
various shelves. 
By the side of 
the bookcase is a 
huge wrought 
iron cross, an excellent specimen of sixteenth 
century work. In the centre of the cross is 
a little cabinet containing a statue of the Vir- 
gin Mary, before which a light is kept con- 
tinually burning. This cross was ** picked 
up tT with several others in the Austrian 
Tyrol by the Empress Frederick, who gave 
it to Sir Morell in )8S8. She has also one 
hanging over her bed in her palace in 
Berlin. This apartment is lit with the 
electric light— -as i ft deed are all the rooms — ■ 


{MUioU £ Fry. 



and it may be interesting to many to 
know that the picture of The Gothic Room 
in these pages was obtained with this 
artificial light. 

It was in the first-mentioned consulting- 
room that Sir Morell and I sat doivn by 
the fire and talked together. The eminent 
physician is of medium height, clean shaven , 
and has an expression of great kindness 
and sympathy, He talks in measured tones, 
and in many ways our conversation re- 
sembled a consultation — every word was 
uttered with remarkable discretion and 
care. A patient 
puts as much trust 
in his doctor as a 
client in his lawyer. 
The medical world 
and the legal com- 
munity do not betray 
confidences — hence 
the demeanour of 
Sir Morell on some 
points displays the 
utmost caution. At 
other times he 
talked with freedom 
and gaiety — there 
was not a tinge of 
"the profession 1? 
about him. 

Sir Morell was 
born at Leytonstone 
in 1837, and comes 
of a distinguished 
medical family. He 
vva* educated at a 
private school at 
VValthamstow, un- 
der the care of Dr. 
Greig, where he re- 
mained until he was 
sixteen years of age* 
He was always pas- 
sionately fond of natural history, and this 
possibly had something to do with turning 
his thoughts towards medicine. He always 
wanted to enter the medical profession, but 
the cost of the necessary education was too 
L'Tcat tor his mother — his father being dead 
at this time— so that it seemed probable that 
a commercial career was to fall to his lot, 
Whilst the majority of his schoolfellows 
went to India, he, on saying "good-bye" 
to Dr. Greig, started life as a junior clerk 
in the Union Assurance Company, where 
he remained for two years. However, in 
1856 a relation game forward, and the young 
clerk was sent to the London Hospital. 

From a Fhnto. ftjrl si if JMGkei.l MACKENZIE. 

by \j 



Here he greatly distinguished himself, win- 
ning the senior gold medal for surgery, and 
the senior gold medal for clinical medicine, 
u In 1858 I went to Paris — after passing 
my exams* — where I spent a useful yaar," 
said Sir Morell, u and from there to Vienna 
and Pesth. It was at the latter city that I 
met Professor Czermak, who was just 
then devoting much time and labour to 
the laryngoscope, I really went to see 
the city, but I came across an instru- 
ment which at once claimed my every 
thought. I saw what a future there wa- 
fer it, and a great 
friendship sprang tip 
between Czermak 
and myself. On 
my return to Eng- 
land, I brought the 
instrument back 
with me, and di- 
rected my whole at- 
tention to it* I was 
then appointed resi- 
dent medical officer 
at the London Hos- 
pital, Immediately 
cases came pouring 
in from all parts, 
and we would pub- 
lish those of the 
deepest interest 
which had been exa- 
mined with the aid 
of the laryngoscope. 
Let me describe this 
instrument in a few 
simple words. It 
consists of a mirror 
put at the back of 
the throat which 
conveys a light into 
the windpipe, at the 
same time receiving 
the image of the illuminated part upon the 
surface. An ordinary optician could make 
one. It is very difficult to use on young 
children, though really I have succeeded 
in operating on little ones of three and 
four years of age. 

u I look back on those days at the Lon- 
don Hospital with infinite pleasure. Many, 
many poor people were seen, and often I 
would visit some of the most wretched 
abodes. But the poorer class are impres- 
sively appreciative. Their appreciation 
runs the length of their pockets, and some 
of the little tokens of thankfulness I re- 
ceived, though small in value, bore much 


i£Uwti A />!/. 




meaning. Apples, oranges, packets of 
sweets, and small bags of nuts would come, 
accompanied by a letter. !J And then I 
learnt of a very happy custom of Sir 
Morell's, of assuring his smaller East- 
end patients that it was "all right/' and 
they " would soon be well." He would 
take toys into these squalid dwellings, and, 
putting a horse and cart, or a doll, at the 
foot of the bedside, so that the little 
sufferer could see it easily, and look upon 
it as something worth winning, he would 
promise it to the child as soon as its throat 
had been examined. In many ways he 
became a friend to dwellers in the East It 
meant hard work for the young doctor. In 
the daytime he was seeing patients, whilst 
every moment of leisure was devoted to 
inventing all sorts of instruments to be 
used in conjunction with the laryngoscope. 
On his leaving the Hospital as resident 
medical officer, he was appointed visiting 
physician, which meant he had to visit 
there twice a week to see out-patients. 

His course was now fully decided — he 
would make a speciality of throat diseases. 
In 1863 he established the Throat Hospital 
in Golden- square. It began as a small dis- 
pensary, with a couple of rooms, but it 

by v^ 



grew and grew until it assumed the pro- 
portions of a great building, affording relief 
to thousands of people, and Sir Morell still 
remains its consulting physician. 

M About this time," resumed Sir Morell* 
" I was lecturing very frequently on Physio- 
logy, I soon got into a large private practice. 
I took a house in George-street, Hanover- 
square, thence removed to Wey mouth-street, 
and finally, in [870, to my present abode. 
You ask me for a typical day's work. From 
g a.m. to 10 a.m. I visit bad cases. 
From 10 to 2 I am being consulted here* 
In the afternoon I am out again. In the 
evening I take notes of my cases, and when 
a spare hour for recreation comes to me, I 
find relief in a game of chess — niy favourite 
amusement. 1 can get through fifty or 
sixty cases in a day. Old patients can be 
seen very quickly— five minutes ; new cases 
— twenty minutes or half an hour. They 
come from all parts of the world — New 
Zealand t Australia, India, It was from 
America — Milwaukee — that I received the 
offer of my largest fee. I was offered ^"5,000 
to go out and see one individual case, but 
I was unable to accept it, for at that time 
I was attending the late Emperor, 

11 One very curious fee I once received 



1 23 

grea t 


came about as follows. An old man 
came to see me here. I examined his 
throat, and at once saw it was in a 
terribly bad state. I asked him why he 
had not come to see me sooner. His reply 
amused me very much. 

ill You see, sir/ he said, ' I hadn't got a 
guinea. I always thought a physician 
wouldn't see anybody without a spade 
guinea, and at last I've got one* Here it 
is t and thank you very much,' " 

It is as interesting as it is gratifying to 
heair Sir Morell give favourable accounts 
of the throats of some famous actors and 
singers. He is often called upon to restore 
the voices of vocalists just for the night— 
a medical feat which he performs with the 
utmost skill. For years Madame Albani 
never consulted any doctor about her 
throat. She was always afraid of being 
made worse. Finally she went to Sir 
Morell. Madame Albani has a fine, well- 
developed throat. Sir Morell assured me 
that an examination of Madame Patti's 
throat gave him the secret of the creation 
of her beautiful notes. The great singer 
cares for it so well that to-day it absolutely 
shows no sign of wear, and resembles the 
throat of a young girl. Madame Pauline 
Lucca has a grand throat, and one is not 
surprised to hear that Sims Reeves takes 
more care of his throat than any vocalist 
living, Mr. Irving has a very soun3 throat. 

by C^OOgle 

As his intimates 
know T the eminent 
actor's stage voice is 
entirely different 
from his natural 
voice, but the con- 
stant employment of 
his theatrical tones 
has done no harm. 
Referring to Mr. 
Toole, Sir Morell 
said in a very 
way, U I had 
difficulty in 
examining him." 
Those who know the 
comedian will readily 
understand this, 

(i The great thing/ 1 
prescribed Sir Morell t 
" is to try and harden 
the throat ; do not 
wrap it up too much. 
Endeavour to make 
the neck as capable 
of exposure as the 
face. We do not cover up our faces, and 
they are practically the hardiest part of our 
bodies. Of course, when a person gets to 
a certain age it is too late for this. Keep 
the throat free from wrappings. The 
throat is the entrance to the lungs— a 
very vital part, narrow and tender. The 
great feather boas and Medici collars which 
ladies wear round the neck, and the stifling 
mufflers which men put on, are calculated 
to do harm, I recommend turn-down 
collars. Gargling with cold salt water in 
the morning is a very excellent thirg, also 
bathing the throat, first with very hot water, 
and then with very cold. The throat gets 
the effect of a sudden shock." 

Then our conversation briefly reverted to 
Sir Morell's memorable connection with the 
late Emperor of Germany. 

" It was in the May of 1887/ 1 the physi- 
cian said, M that I received a summons to 
go immediately to Berlin. The telegram 
came at nine o'clock one evening, and I 
was away by the first train next morn- 
ing. On my arrival, I at once saw T 
the Crown Prince. My examination 
only lasted a few minutes. I felt it was a 
very doubtful case, and I told all the Crown 
Prince's regular doctors, who were in the 
room, frankly what I thought. The Crown 
Prince seemed to be possessed of much sang 
froid; he was quite happy. His extreme 
courtesy impressed me most. He thanked 




me most heartily for coining. [ saw him 
again the next day, and was more than ever 
convinced of my previous impressions. w 

All the world knows the course of events 
which followed. Sir Morell assured me 
that his illustrious patient never once asked 
what he (the physician) thought of his 
case ; never once said, u Do you think I 
sl^all recover ? n The Royal personage was 
very fond of talking about England, and 
particularly Scotland, When Sir Morell 
was out walking or driving with him t the 
late Emperor was never happier than when 
telling stories of Frederick the Great. He 
pointed out the mill at Potsdam— fanipus 
tor the historical dispute between the miller 
and his noble ancestor, 

"There's the mi n," he cried to Sir 
Morell. "It 
was, a great 
eyesore to the 
Great Freder- 
ic k, and he 
wanted the mil- 
ler to give it up. 
The miller was 
immovable! so 
the ruler of a 
kingdom and 
the owner of a 
mill went into 
court. The 
millowner wor^ 
and when the 
King found his 
cause was hope- 
less, he became 

*>™ a iflo**. ty] 

good friends 
with the miller 
by way of atonement/ 1 

Sir Morell was by the Emperor's bedside 
djuring tne last hours. Writing materials 
were laid out on the bed f and the Emperor 
used to write on these to Sir Morell when 
he required moving from one bed to 
another, on slips of paper about fi% T e inches 
long by three inches wide, written on in 
pencil. Sir Morell prolonged one of the 
most precious lives m Europe for over a 

It is of no smalt moment to learn what 
Sir Morell Mackenzie considers the effects 
of oversmoking on the throat. In reply 
to my question on this highly interesting 
subject, lie referred me to an article he 
wrote in The AVtt' Review '. His remedy 
for getting rid of the same is a very simple 
one, namely, the discontinuing of the 
practice which engenders them. 

by Google 

He strongly objects to a cigarette hi as 
being the worst form of indulgence, from 
the fact that the very mildness of its action 
tempts people to smoke nearly all day long, 
and by inhaling the fumes into their lungs, 
saturate their blood with the poison. Ft 
should be borne in mind that there are two 
bad qualities contained in the fumes of 
tobacco. One is poisonous nicotine, the 
other the high temperature of the burning 
tobacco. Most people, however, can smoke 
in moderation without injury ; to man}?' 
tobacco acts as a useful nerve sedative, but, 
on the other hand, an excessive indulgence 
in the habit is alto-ays injurious, many 
persons wilfully overstepping the boundary 
line which separates moderation from abuse- 
The condition of the throat as well as that 

of the general 
health varies 
greatly at times, 
and an amount 
of smoking, 
which at one 
time would be 
attended with 
no bad effect, 
might at an- 
other produce 
serious harm, 
Every smoker 
knows that 
when the sto- 
mach is out of 
order the pipe 
or cigar loses 
its charm ; but 
it is not so ge- 
nerally known 
that at such times the tongue {which to 
the experienced eye is a mirror of the 
invisible stomach) and the throat are 
more vulnerable than usual to tobacco. 
If nature's warnings on these points 
are disregarded, as they generally are* the 
smoker will bring on himself much unne- 
cessary discomfort, and even suffering. In 
connection with the variation in suscepti- 
bility just referred to, it may be mentioned 
that persons leading an out-door life can, as a 
rule, smoke with much greater impunity 
than those who spend most of their time 
indoors. It is further worthy of remark 
that the inhabitants of warm climates suffer 
less than the dwellers in what is, probably 
on the Incus a mm luceudo principle, called 
the temperate climate of England. This is 
doubtless due to the greater resisting 
power of throats less harassed by fogs and 



[Elliott dt trv* 



east winds, and partly, perhaps, to the use 
of milder tobacco. 

"Toconclude with a little practical advice," 
says Sir Morel 1, " I would say to anyone who 
finds total abstinence too heroic a stretch of 
virtue, let him smoke only after a substan- 
tial meal, and, if he be a singer or a speaker, 
let him do so after, and never before using 
hU voice* Let him smoke a mild Havan- 
nah, or a long-stemmed 
pipe charged with some 
cool smoking tobacco. If 
the charms of the cigar- 
ette are irresistible, let 
it be smoked through a 
mouthpiece which is kept 
clean with ultra-Moham- 
medan strictness. Let 
him refrain from smoking 
pipe, cigar, or cigarette to 
the bitter, and, it may be 

added, rank and oily end. Your Turk, 
who is very choice in his smoking, and 
thoroughly understands the art, always 
throws away the near half of his cigarette. 
Let the singer who wishes to keep in the 
1 perfect way ' refrain from inhaling tile 
smoke, and let him take it as an axiom that 
the man in whom tobacco increases the 
flow of saliva to any marked degree is not 
intended by nature to 
smoke. Let him be 
strictly moderate in in- 
dulgence^ — the precise 
limits each man must 
settle for himself — and he 
will get all the good ef- 
fect of the soothing plant 
without the bane which 
lurks in it when used to 


Harry How- 


{Wrvm a Photo, by titiwU d try,] 

by Google 

Original from 

After the Crime. 

From the Fkexch of Constant Gu^rqult. 

[Constant GueROUlt was bom at ElbeuC f on the nth of February, 1814, and passed the first thirty 
years of his life in commerce. He then came to Paris T and began to wriie stories in various journals. 
The power and interest of the&e p which are mostly sensational in type, soon made his name widely known. 
The little story which follows is a good specimen of his style, and is additionally interesting as teaching the 
same moral which Dickens enforced in his description of the crime of Bill Sykes and of Jonas Cbuzzlewit— - 
that murder curies with it its own punishment.] 

tremor ; his 
from which blood 
drop. He cast 

T was at the extremity of a 
village : a window was hur- 
riedly thrown open, and a 
man appeared at it, his features 
livid, his eyes haggard, his 
lips agitated by a convulsive 
right hand grasped a knife 

was dripping, drop by 
look into the silent 

country, then sprang to the ground, and 
set off running away through the fields, 

At the end of a quarter of an hour he 
stopped exhausted, breathless, at the edge 
of a wood, twenty paces from a highway. 
He searched for the most closely grown, 
the most impenetrable spot to be found, 
and pressed his way into it, regardless of 
the thorns that were tearing him ; then he 
began to dig up the earth with his knife. 
When he had made a hole a foot deep, he 
placed the weapon in it, and covered it 
with the soil he had dug out, re-covered it 
with a grass sod, which he trampled down 
solidly, after which he sat down upon the 
wet grass. 

He listened, and appeared terrified by 
the silence which hung upon the country. 

It was the hour when the darkness of 
night is replaced by that grey aVid uniform 
tint which is neither day nor night, and 
through which objects look like phantoms. 

It seemed to him that he was alone in 
this funereal immensity, in the midst of 
this dumb and dim nature. Suddenly a 
sound made him start ; it was the axle of 
a waggon creaking on the road, a league 
away perhaps ; but in the silence this strange 
and discordant noise made itself heard with 
singular distinctness. 

Then Nature awoke little by little. The 
lark took flight towards the blue sky, pour- 
ing out his notes, at once timid and charm- 
ing, overflowing with life and happiness ; a 
winged tribe began to sing and flutteT ami! 
the leaves glittering with dew ; oji all sides 
— in the moss on which the golden insect was 
crawling, to the branch of the highest oak f 
where the bird voluptuously plumed herself 
in the ether — arose a morning concert, so 
harmonious in its confusion, so potent in its 

C"*£ RKOTKHil? THE HOLE WITH A©fl^ ffiFftt 




delirium, so full of greeting to the first rays 
coming from the east, that it might well be 
called a hymn to the sun. 

Nature expanded herself, radiant and 
virginal ; all was grace, freshness, sparkle 
in the forest, where a blue mist still floated ; 
all was calm and hushed in the plain, the 
great lines of which undulated to infinity, 
the grey tones of which grew light under 
the reflection of the blue sky. 

The murderer rose ; his limbs trembled, 
and his teeth clattered one agarnst the other. 

He cast furtive glances around him, then 
parted the branches with precaution, 
stopping, starting, drawing back his head 
hastily at the least sound ; then, at length, 
he quitted the densely grown thicket in 
which he had buried his knife. 

He pressed forward deeper into the forest, 
choosing always the most shaded portions 
and avoiding the open parts and the beaten 
paths, making frequent stoppages to listen 
or to examine the ground before him ere 
he advanced. In this way he walked all 
day without being conscious of fatigue — 
so great was the agony which dominated 

He paused at the entrance to a grove of 
beeches, whose imposing trunks stood white 
and smooth, like thousands of columns, 
crowned with foliage. A calm day, a 
harmonious silence, added to the impres- 
sion of grandeur and retirement made by 
this beautiful spot ; something animate 
seemed to throb amid the luminous shade 
of the motionless boughs, as if a soul 
were there amid the shadows, murmuring 
mysterious syllables. 

The fugitive felt ill at ease, and, creeping 
like a reptile, forced his way under a clump 
of thorn bushes, the density of which com- 
pletely hid him. 

When he was in safety, he first raised 
his hand to his head and then to his 
stomach, and muttered, " I am hungry ! " 

The sound of his voice made him shud- 
der ; it was the first time he had heard it 
since the murder, and it resounded in his 
ears like a knell and a menace. For sojne 
moments he remained motionless and held 
his breath, as if in fear of having been 

When he had become a little calmer, he 
felt in his pockets one after the other ; they 
contained a few sous. 

11 That will be enough," he said in a low 
tone ; " in six hours I shall have crossed 
the frontier ; then I can show myself ; I 
can work, and shall be saved. 1 ' 

by Google 

At the end of an hour he felt the cold 
begin to stiffen his limbs, for with the 
coming of night the dew fell, and his only 
clothes were a linen blouse and trousers of 
the same material. He rose, and, cautiously 
quitting his thorn bushes, continued his 
march. He halted at the first signs of 
dawn. He had reached the limits of the 
forest, and must now enter upon the open 
country, must show himself in the full 
light of day ; and, struck with terror by 
this thought, he dared not advance a step 

While he was standing hidden in a 
thicket the sound of horses' hoofs was 
heard. He turned pale. 

" Gendarmes ! " he gasped, crouching 
down upon the ground. 

It was a farm-labourer going to the 
fields, with two horses harnessed to a wag- 
gon ; he was whistling a country air while 
re-tying the lash of his whip. 

11 Jacques ! " a voice cried to him. 

The peasant turned round. 

14 Hallo ! is that you Fran£oise ? Where 
are you going so early ? " 

" Oh ! I'm going to wash this bundle of 
linen at the spring close by." 

" I'm going within two steps of it ; put 
your bundle on one of my beasts." 

" Thanks !— that's not to be refused. 
How's the wife and the little ones — all of 
them ? " * 

" I'm the weakest of the family," replied 
Jacques, laughing loudly ; " all goes well — 
work, joy, and health." 

He tied his lash, and the sharp crack was 
repeated by echo after echo. 

The murderer followed him with his 
eyes as far as he could see him ; then a 
deep sigh escaped from his lips, and his 
gaze turned to the open country spread- 
ing before him. 

" I must get on," he murmured, " it is 
twenty-four hours since I . All is dis- 
covered, I am being sought, an hour's 
delay may ruin me." 

He made up his mind resolutely, and 
quitted the forest. 

At the end of ten minutes he came with- 
in sight of a church tower. Then he 
slackened his pace, a prey to a thousand 
conflicting feelings, drawn towards the 
village by hunger, restrained by the fear 
which counselled him to avoid habitations. 

However, after a long struggle, during 
which he had advanced as much as possible 
under the screen of outhouses and bushes, 
he was about to enter the village, when he 

Original from t 





saw something glitter about a hundred paces 
from him. 

It was the bras^ badge and the pommel 
of a rural policeman's sabre, 

iy He may have my description ," he mur- 
mured with a shudder. 

And, shrinking back quickly, he ran to 
a little wood which extended on his left and 
hid himself in it, pushing further and further 
into its depths, forgetting his hunger, and 
thinking only of flying from the village 
and the rural police- 

Bat he speedily 
reached the end of 
the wood, which was 
of very small ex- 
tent : beyond, the 
plain began again. 

O n peering from be- 
tween the branches, 
he saw a man seated 
on the grass eating 
his breakfast. It was 
Jacques, the farm la- 

Nothing could be 
more pleasant than 
the corner he had 
chosen for his break- 
fast-room, It was a 
sort of little stony 
ravine, through 
which ran two deep 
wheel-ruts, but car- 
peted with grass and 
moss and bordered 
with creepers, green - 
leaved, yellow, or 
purple, according to 
the caprices of that 
powerful colouri st 
called Autumn. The 
wheel -ruts were full 
of limpid water, at 
the bottom of which 
glittered little white 
stones T smooth and 
transparent as onyx. 
Finally, this pretty 
nest was shaded by 
a cluster of birch- 
trees with reddish 

silvery trunks and foliage light and trem- 

Above this oasis spread ploughed fields on 
which hung, white and closely woven, the 
11 Virgin -threads/' floating and sparkling^ 
like an immense silver net. 



by Google 

Jacques' breakfast consisted of a hunch of 
bread and a piece of cheese, washed down 
with big draughts of cider claret, which he 
drank out of a stone pitcher, cooled in the 
water of the wheel ruts. 

The peasant's strong white teeth buried 
themselves in the bread with an appetite 
which might have made a capitalist desire 
to share his frugal meal, which he only inter- 
rupted now and then to give a friendly 
word to his two horses, which, a few paces 

off, were feeding in 
brotherly fashion 
from the same wisp 
of hay. 

" He's happy — he 
is ! ri murmured the 
murderer. Then, 
from the depths of 
his conscience he 
added : l( Yes ! work ! 
— love of family ! — 
peace and happiness 
are there ! tT 

He was tempted 
to accost Jacques and 
abk him for a piece 
of bread ; but a. 
glance at his tattered 
dress forbade him 
showing himself ; 
and then it seemed 
to him that his fea- 
tures bore the stamp 
of his crime, and must 
denounce him to 
whoever looked upon 

A sound made him 
turn his head, and 
through the branches 
he saw an old man 
covered with rags. 
He walked bent 
double, a stick in his 
hand and a canvas 
bag slung to his neck 
by a cord. It was 
a beggar. 

The murdcre r 
watched him with 
envious eyes, and 
again he murmured : 
H What would I not give to be in his 
place ! He begs, but he is free j he goes 
where he pleases in the wide air, in the 
broad sunlight, with a calm heart, with a 
tranquil conscience, eating without fear and 
agony the bread given to him in charity ; 

Original from 




able to look behind him without seeing a 
dead body, beside him without dreading to 
find a gendarme at his elbow, before him 
without seeing a vision of the scaffold. Yes, 
he is happy, that old mendicant, and I 
may well envy him his lot." 

Suddenly he turned pale, a nervous 
trembling agitated all his limbs, and his 
features were drawn up like those of an 

44 There they are ! " he stammered, his 
eyes fixed upon a point on the road. 

With haggard eye, bewildered, mad with 
terror, he looked on all sides, seeking to 
find a place of concealment ; but so strangely 
was he overcome by fear that his eyes saw 
nothing, and his mind was incapable of 

During this time the gendarmes ap- 
proached rapidly. 

The gallop of the horses and the clanking 
of arms suddenly brought back to him his 
presence of mind, and, seeing before him an 
elm, the foliage of which was dense enough 
to hide him from sight, he climbed up it 
with the agility of a squirrel. 

He was in safety when the two gendarmes 
halted on the road a few paces from him. 

He listened, motionless, terrified, a prey 
to emotion so violent that he could hear 
the beating of the heart within him. 

44 What if we search this wood ! " said one 
of the gendarmes. 

44 It's too small," said the other ; " it's 
not there that our man would take refuge 
— rather in a forest." 

k4 Anyhow, it will be prudent to beat it 

44 No," replied his comrade, " it would be 
time lost, and the assassin has already a 
ten hours' start of us." 

And they went on at a trot. 

The murderer breathed again ; he felt a 
renewed life. But, this agony passed, a 
suffering, for a moment forgotten, made 
itself felt anew, and he cried : 

44 My God, how hungry I am ! " 

He had not eaten for forty-eight hours. 

His legs gave way under him ; he was 
seized with giddiness and a humming in 
the ears. And yet, he no more thought of 
going to the village for bread. The gen- 
darmes ! the scaffold ! Those two phantoms 
ceaselessly rose before him, and over-mas- 
tered even the pangs of famine. 

While his restless ears were on the watch 
for all sounds in the country, the dreary 
tolling of a bell made him start : it was the 
bell of the village church sounding the 

funeral knell. The murderer listened, pale, 
downcast, shuddering at every stroke, as 
if the clapper of the bell had struck upon 
his heart. Then big tears fell slowly from 
his eyes, and streamed down his cheeks 
unobserved by him, without his making 
any attempt to stop their flow. 

It was because these funeral sounds 
evoked in his imagination a picture at once 
terrible and heartrending. At that same 
hour the bell of another village church was 
tolling like this for another death. 

41 Oh, wretch, wretch that I am!" 
sighed the murderer, covering his face with 
both his hands. 

He listened again to the strokes of the 
church bell, which sounded to him like the 
sobs of the poor victim, and he murmured : 

" Oh, idleness ! it led me to the tavern 
— and the tavern, this is what has come o* 
it ! — three orphans, a poor wife in the 
ground, and I ! — a monster, hateful to all, 
hunted like a wild beast, pursued without 
rest or truce, until the hour when they 
shall have driven me to the scaffold. Hor- 
rible, horrible destiny ! — and yet too mild a 

He remained in the tree until night had 
come. When he saw the stars shine in the 
sky, when, in the vast solitude around him, 
he heard nothing but that vague breathing 
which seems like the respiration of the 
sleeping earth, then only he ventured tu 
descend to rest himself. 

He stretched himself at the foot of the 
tree, and closed his eyes ; but fear which 
would not quit him, hunger which gnawed 
at his vitals, kept him constantly awake, 
and he rose at the first sign of dawn, over- 
whelmed, bowed down at once by alarm, 
fatigue, and the fasting of nearly three 

At the end of a few hours his hunger, 
sharpened by the exciting air of the wood, 
ended by overcoming all his terror ; and, 
feeling that his reason was beginning to 
reel in his brain, he decided to go into the 
village in search of bread. 

He shook off the blades of grass which 
hung to his clothes, retied his necker- 
chief, passed his fingers through his 
tangled hair, then resolutely went out into 
the plain. Five minutes afterwards he 
entered the village, walking slowly, hio 
head bent down, like a man overcome by 
fatigue, but casting a furtive and suspi- 
cious glance right and left, and ready to 
take flight at thq| fftfift-, appearance of 




Not far from the church — that is to say, 
in the centre of the place— he perceived 
a tavern, the patriarchal aspect of which 
seemed to him to be reassuring. After con- 
vincing himself that neither cries nor dis- 
putes were coming from it— evidence that 
it was almost empty — he made up his mind 
to enter. 

il What can I give you, my good man ? ,T 
asked the landlord, a solidly built peasant, 
with broad shoulders, and a frank and open 

u Bread and wine," replied the murderer, 
going and seating himself at a table itear a 
window opening on to a garden. 

He was speedily served, 

H Here you are ! " said the land lord t 
"bread, wine, and cheese." 

The murderer felt himself becoming 
faint. He was tempted to rush out of the 
house ; but a moments reflection convinced 
him that such a course would ensure his 
certain destruction, and that prudence 
itself called on him to remain where he was, 

He had hardly come to this decision when 
drinkers flocked into the tavern, which 
presently became full. The murderer began 
to eat and drink, taking care to keep his 
face turned towards the window, so as to 
hide his features as much as possible, 

A quarter of an hour passed, an age of 
torment and anxiety for the fugitive, whom 
the most insignificant word caused to turn 
pale and to shudder. At length he was 
going to rise and leave the tavern, when 
one of the drinkers cried : 


"I only asked for bread and wine," said 
the murderer, abruptly, hiding his face in 
his hands, 

u Oh ! the cheese is of no consequence to 
me, nor the bread either, for — no offence to 
you — you don't look too well off, my poor 
man, and it seems to me that you need to 
get up your strength ; so eat and drink 
without worrying yourself about the rest." 

M Thanks, thanks I " 

At that moment the church bells began 
to ring loudly- 

u What is that?" asked the murderer. 
u Why are the bells ringing in that way ? " 

*' Why ! Because the mass is over." 

" The mass ! What is to-day, then ? " 

" Sunday. You are not a Christian, 
then ? Oh ! you T U h^ve companions pre- 

u Hallo! here comes Daddy Faucheux, 
our brigadier of gendarmerie ! " 

The murderer started frightfully, and his 
right hand flew to his head ; all his blood 
had rushed to his heart, and from his heart 
to his brain, as if he had been stricken 
with apoplexy, 

He came to himself little by little, but 
without recovering his powers ; from the 
shock he had sustained there remained a 
weakness and nervous tremor which ren- 
dered him wholly incapable of effort. 

On seeing the brigadier enter, he leaned 
his head upon the table, and pretended to 
fall asleep. 

The welcome given to the gendarme 
attested the esteem in which he was held 
in the c our try ; everyone was eager to 



" Thanks, friends," replied Daddy Fau- 
cheux, " a glass is not to oe refused ; but, as 
to sitting down, and taking it easy with you 
— the service forbids." 

" The service ! that's a good one. To- 
day is Sunday, and thieves require a day 
of rest as well as other folks." 

14 Thieves, possibly ; but it's different 
with assassins." 

44 Assassins ! What do you mean by 
that, Daddy Faucheux ? " 

44 Haven't you heard about the affair at 
Saint Didier ? " 

44 No ; tell us about it." 

41 The more willingly, because I came in 
here to give you all a description of the 
scoundrel we are hunting." 

The heart of the murderer throbbed 
heavily enough to burst his chest. 

44 He's a stone-mason, named Pierre 
Picard," the brigadier continued. 

44 And who has he murdered ? " 

" His wife." 

44 The beggar ! What had she done to 

44 Cried without complaining when he 
beat her ; only sometimes she went to the 
tavern to ask him to give her some money 
to buy food for her little ones, whom she 
could not bear to see dying of starvation. 
That was the whole of her crime, poor 
creature ! It was for that he killed her on 
Thursday night last. She was only five- 
and-twenty. He ought to have kissed the 
ground she walked on, the wretch ! She 
spent her life in working and caring for 
him and the children, and she had never 
received any other reward save blows and 

44 The infernal villain 1" cried a young 
man, striking his fist violently on the table 
before him ; 44 I'd think it a pleasure to go 
and see his head chopped off." 

44 That's why you all ought to know his 
description, so as to be able to arrest him if 
you come upon him ; for we know that he 
is skulking somewhere hereabouts." 

There was a deep silence. 

The murderer, he too listened, master- 
ing by a superhuman effort the fever 
raging in his blood and bewildering his 

44 This is the description of Pierre Picard," 
said the brigadier, unfolding a paper : 
44 Middle height, short neck, broad shoul- 
ders, high cheek bones, large nose, black 
eyes, sandy beard, thin lips, a brown mole 
on the forehead." 

Folding up the paper, he added : 

Digitized by Google 

44 Now you'll be sure to recognise him if 
you meet him ! " 

44 With such a description, it would be 
impossible to mistake him." 

44 Then, as the song says, 4 good night, 
my friends ' ; I leave you to go and hunt 
my game." 

The murderer ceased to breathe. While 
listening to the brigadier's departure, he 
calculated that a few hours only separated 
him from the frontier, and already he saw 
himself in safety. 

He was about raising his head, when the 
heavy boots of the gendarme, taking a new 
direction, resounded suddenly in his ears. 

The gendarme stopped, two paces from 
the table at which he was seated ; and the 
murderer felt his look turned upon him. 

His blood seemed to freeze in his veins. 
A cold perspiration burst from all his 
pores, and his heart appeared to him to 
cease beating. 

44 By theway,"cried the brigadier, " here's 
a party who is sleeping pretty soundly." 

And he struck him on the shoulder. 

44 Hallo, my friend, hold your head up a 
little ; I want to see your phiz." 

Pierre Picard raised his head sharply ; 
the expression of his face was frightful. 
His livid features were horribly contracted, 
his blood-shot eyes darted flames, and a 
nervous trembling agitated his thin and 
close-pressed lips. 

44 It's he ! " cried ten voices at once. 

The brigadier put out his hand to seize 
him by the collar, but before he could 
touch him, the murderer struck him two 
heavy blows with his fist in the eyes and 
blinded him ; then, springing through the 
window into the garden, he disappeared. 

Recovered from the surprise which had 
at first paralysed them, twenty young men 
dashed off in pursuit of him. At a bound 
he cleared the garden hedge, gained the 
fields, and in less than ten minutes was half 
a league away from the village. 

After making sure that the unevenness 
of the ground prevented him from being 
seen, he paused for a moment to take 
breath, for he was quite exhausted and 
would have sunk down senseless if this 
furious flight had continued twenty seconds 

But he had hardly seated himself, before 
confused cries struck upon his ears. He 
rose and listened. 

It was his pursuers. 

What was he to do ? Exhausted, breath- 
less, he could run no further — and they 

■_■ I I L| 1 1 I Q I 





were there, on his heels. He cast a des- 
perate glance around htrn. Everywhere 
he saw the level plain — without a rock, 
without a hollow, without a clump of 
trees, in which he could hide himself. 
Suddenly his eyes fell upon a shining pool 
of standing water, on the margin of which 
there was a growth of tall reeds, and he 
gasped : 

" Let's try it* 

He dragged himself to the pool, in which 
he hid himself up to the neck, drawing 
over his head the reeds and water-plants, 
then remained as motionless as if he had 
taken root in the mud- 

The water had become still and smooth 
as a mirror when the twenty peasants 
arrived at the edge of the pool, preceded by 
the brigadier, who, thanks to the care of 
the landlord of the tavern, had speedily 
recovered from the stunning effects of the 
blows he had received, 

;i Now/* cried Daddy Faucheux, from 
the back of his horse, and examining the 
country in all directions, "where in the 
name of wonder can that scoundrel have 
got to ! M 

"It's odd/* said a young peasant; "five 
minutes ago I saw him plainly — and, now, 
not a glimpse of him ! and yet the ground's 
flat and green for three leagues round, 
without so much as a mole's hole in which 
he could hide his nose/ 1 

li He can't be far off,' 1 said ihe brigadier. 
11 Let us divide and spread over the plain, 

Digitized by G* 

searching every bit of it, and coming back 
here last/' 

Pierre Picard heard the party disperse, 
uttering threats against him. 

Still standing motionless in the pool, he 
trembled in every limb, and dared not 
change his position for fear of betraying his 
presence by agitating the water about him, 
or by deranging the reeds and water-plants 
with which he had covered his head. 

He passed an hour in this position, 
studying the sound of the steps crossing 
each other on the plain, of which his ears, 
eagerly strained, caught the least percep- 
tible echoes. 

At the end of that time the whole of 
the party were again collected about the 

u Thunder and lightning I * T cried the 
brigadier, furiously ; u the brigand has 
escaped us, but how the plague could he 
have done it ? 1T 

11 He must be a sorcerer ! ,r said a 

M Sorcerer or not, I'll not give him up/* 
replied Daddy Faucheux. * 4 1*11 just give 
Sapajou time to swallow a mouthful of 
water at this pool, and we'll both slip off to 
the edge of the frontier, towards which the 
beggar is sure to make his way/ 1 

And turning his horse towards the pool, 
he reined him up just at the spot where 
the fugitive was hidden amid the tuft of 
reeds, The animal stretched forward his 
neck, sniffed the air strongly, then quickly 
Original from 



1 33 

drew back his head and refused to advance* 
Pierre Picard felt the beast's warm breath 
upon his cheek. 

The brigadier gently flipped Sapajou's 
ears to force him to enter the pool, but the 
animal backed a couple of paces, and his 
master was unable, either by blows or pat- 


to induce him 

to obey. 

11 Oh ! we are in our 
tantrums ! " cried the 
brigadier, furious at 
a resistance to which 
he was wholly unused ; 
hX we'll see which of 
us is going to give in 
to the other," 

And he was pre- 
paring to flog poor 
Sapajou severely, 
when, as if under- 
standing the im- 
pending danger, 
the an i ma 1 
wheeled suddenly 
to the left and 
entered the pool 
some paces fur- 
ther off. 

« That's all the 
better for you," 
said the brigadier. 
Then f while hi; 
horse was drink- 
ing, he said to the 
peasants : 

41 N o w, m y 
good fellows, you 
can go back to 
the village ; I 
and Sapajou will 
see to the rest," 

The ] ei^ants 
moved off, wish- 
ing him good luck, Then the horse T having 
sufficiently satisfied his thirst, left the water 
and set off across the fields, stimulated by 
the voice of his master. 

The murderer was left alone. 

But, though he was benumbed with cold, 
he allowed more than a quarter of an 
hour to pass before venturing to quit his 
retreat. At length he came from the 
pool, dripping with water, his head and 
shoulders covered with water-grass and 
plants which clung to his skin and clothes, 
his body shivering, his face cadaverous. He 
cast a long glance over the deserted plain, 
and tried to speak, but his teeth clattered 

together so violently that it was some 
moments before he could articulate a word, 
fci Saved ! " he gasped at length. 
Then he continued, with profound dejec- 
tion : 

"Yes, saved— for the hour! But tht 
brigadier waits for me on the frontier ; the 

gendarmerie are 
warned, the whole 
population are on 
foot ; the hunt 
is going to begin 
again against the 
common enemy 
- — against the mad 
dog. The struggle 
— for ever the 
struggle — with- 
out cessation, 
without pity! 
All men against 
me, and God as 
well ! It ts too 
much — it is 
beyond my 
strength ! tT 

While speak- 
ing he mechani- 
cally freed him- 
self from the 
slimy weeds with 
which he was 

He gazed upon 
the solitude by 
which he was sur- 
rounded, and it 
appeared to ter- 
rify him : he 
seemed to feel in 
his heart the same 
cold, sullen, de- 
solate solitude. 
Then he took 
his head between his hands, and for five 
minutes remained plunged in his reflec- 

"So be it," he said at length, in a reso- 
lute tone. 

And he set off in the direction of the 
village from whu,h he had fled. 

An hour afterwards he entered the tavern 
where the brigadier had been so near cap- 
turing him. 

All the peasants who had pursued him 
were there. 

" The assassin ! " they cried in bewilder 

"Yes/' replied the murderer, calmly, 

University of Michigan " 




41 it is Pierre Picard, the assassin, who has 
come to give himself up. Go and find 
the gendarmes." 

He seated himself in the middle of the 
tavern, calm and unmoved* 

Two gendarmes speedily arrived. Pierre 
Pieard recognised them as those who, the 
evening before, had passed close by the elm 
in which he had taken refuge. He held 
out his hands to them silently. They 

placed handcuffs upon his wrists, and led 
him to a room at the Mairie^ which was to 
serve provisionally as his dungeon, before 
he was transferred to the neigh bou ring city. 

When he found himself alone p shut up 
securely in this prison, the door of which 
was guarded by two gendarmes, the rnur^ 
derer sank upon his camp bed, and cried 
with a sort of fierce enjoyment : 

"At last I can rest ! 1T 

by Google 

Original from 

My Neighbours' Dogs, 

By Arthur Morrison, 

, HE dog is the friend of man. 
what I used to read 
spelling-book. I do 

(?y \A. I10t w ^h to hnpeach the 

authority of the 
spelling book, but 
I wish my neigh- 
bours hadn't so 
many friends. 

All my neigh- 
bours have friends 
of this sort ; some 
miscreants have 
several. It is 
obviously a con- 
spiracy- I am a 
quiet man, as a 
rule, but some 
day my neigh- 
bours will find that they have carried their 
persecution a little too fan I have made a 
careful calculation, taking into consideration 
all the dogs at present hereabout, and allow- 
ing a fair percentage for occasional visits ; and 
as nearly as I can determine I find that the 
reinforcement of one mastiff, two retrievers, 
and a terrier, or their equivalent in lap- 
dogs, to the ranks of my neighbours 1 
il friends, '' will just carry me past my 
limit of endurance. Then this terrace 
will be found reduced to a heap of ruins 
by the agency of nitro-glycerine. Of 
my own life I am reckless* Judge what 
it is worth to me when I describe, as 
calmly and dispassionately as my natuml 
feelings will allow, the beha- 
viour of some of my neighbours' 

In speaking of my recent 
calculation, I expressed the 
result in mastiffs, terriers, and 
retrievers, simply alluding to 
their equivalent in lap-dogs, 
without stating that one lap- 
dog, as a weapon of offence, is 
the equal of two mastiffs and a 
very dirty mongrel. This is a 
mathematical equation which 
cost me some little trouble in 
the preparation, but I regard it fr ^ % ^ 

with pride as trustworthy to the last 
decimal. In estimating the factors I had 
to consider the fact that what I may be 
pardoned for calling the entire cussed- 
ness of the lap-dog infects in a high 
degree its mistress and all about it. The 
Misses Pegram, next door on the right, 
keep two lap-dogs, a toy spaniel and a pug, 
which cause in me a constant change of 
opinion which in a mathematician is dis- 
agreeable. I always consider the span it I 
absolutely the vilest creature in the animal 
kingdom until I meet the pug, than which 
I then decide nothing could be worse — 
until I see— or hear — the spaniel again ; 
and so on. The Miss Pegram who owns 
the spaniel is one of the most implacable 
of my enemies. I deliberately assert that 
she chases me with that monkey-headed 
dog. I never venture out of doors but she 
bears down upon me — often from behind, 
so that I have no time to escape. She and 
the dog are connected by a length of ribbon, 
and it is their practice to manoeuvre that 
ribbon between my legs if possible, and 
then wind it about me until I am upset, or 
until, in my efforts to escape, I tread upon 




the little beast sufficiently to afford it a 
pretext for howling and snapping at my 
calf. If I am only upset, the woman con- 
tents herself with glaring at me murder- 
ously, and perhaps muttering 
the word " Brute ! " in an 
undertone. If I tread upon it 
(I often wish I weighed twenty 
stone) she screams, faints, 
calls a policeman. Some- 
times she personally as- 
saults me. I solemnly 
aver that the last time I 
trod upon that canine 
imp, that— that Person 
(I will not call her 
Old Frump) — struck 
me with her parasol. 
The pug is per- 
haps, on the whole, 
a little less irritat- 
ing, because he is 
an invalid f with a 
chronic snufRe, and 
consequently takes 
only carriage exer- 
cise, wherefore his 
opportunities of 
mingling with and 
snapping at my legs 
are necessarily re- 
stricted. Personally 
I believe that what 

he chiefly suffers from is overfeeding ; never- 
theless I never see him in the company of 
the Miss Pegram who overfeeds him but 
that unattractive person scowls malignantly 
at me, plainly expressing her conviction that 
/ am somehow responsible for the brute's 
ailments. T really wish I were. He 
shouldn't suffer from that ailment long, I 
promise him ; IM change it for a less 
pleasant one. There he goes as I write. 
The u brougham " (which is really a cab 
with no number) has been ordered out for 
hirn, and he is being held up to the window 
to enjoy the scenery. His bloated, dyspep 
tic face occupies a corner of the 
aperture, and his goggle eyes stand 
out from his head in a way that 
induces a momentary gleam of 
hope that he is being choked. 
Some day, in the course of the 
overfeeding, he may be, and the 
reflection gives me some comfort. 
Meantime I speculate upon the 
origin of the black mark on each 
of the cur's eheeks. These are called 
"kissing-spots," I am told. If that is 


really where Miss Pegram kisses him, I don't 
wonder at the existence of those black spots. 
Next door, on the other side, Blenkinsop 
keeps a different sort of dog. The exact 
species of this dog it would 
be difficult to name, although 
personally I believe he is 
like a man of fashion with 
his clubs, and enjoys the 
distinction of belonging to 
several. Blenkinsop himseli 
labours under a 
vague delusion 
that he is pos- 
sessed of some sort 
of dog of the 
chase, although, 
whether a fox- 
hound, a pointer, 
or a staghound, he 
never gives a de~ 
finite opinion. My 
housekeeper's son (who 
is a vulgar lad) calls it a 
tripe-hound, conveying 
in this name a delicate 
hint at an object of chase more 
to the animal s taste than either 
foxes or stags. Whatever may 
correct classification, it is 
certain that it embodies a very 
strong cross of some species of 
dog which never goes to sleep, 
and conscientiously objects to any other 
creature doing so. It is, in one respect at 
any rate, a really wonderful dog. By some 
mystic operation of instinct he divines the 

exact moment 
of the night at 
which — per 
haps after long 
I am just doz* 
ing off. He 
announces his 
discovery by a 
weird yell, and 




promptly settles down to make a night of it. 
He makes a night of it. So do all my other 
neighbours* dogs, once this brute has re- 
minded them that they have another 
means of annoying me beside those they 
are especially kept to inflict. Finally, in 
the morning, when I give up the game and 
wearily begin to dress, the fiend leaves off, 
by way of mockery ; for well I know that if 
I get into bed again he will recommence. 
This dog, I am convinced, is kept not only 
as a tribulation to me, but as a source of 
profit to Blenkinsop. The hair-brashes, 
boot-jacks, shaving-pots, and lumps of coal 
which the creature attracts to himself dur- 
ing the nights of one month must constitute 
a very desirable income. If s all a part of 
the conspiracy against my peace, and if 
some of the other conspirators are driven 
to contribute boot -jacks and lumps of coal 
as well as I, why, it serves them right. 
Blenkinsop never seems to mind the din 
himself ; it rather 
pleases him. He 
calls it " giving 
tongue/* Person- 
ally I don't like 
tongue, and often 
myself give Blen- 
kinsop some of it, 
consequently we 
are not good 
Viends. Blenkin- 
sop chains up this 
thing of evil out 
of reach of my 
garden wall, pos- 
sibly fearing that 
I may poison it. 
He flatters my 
humanity ; if I 
could get hold of 
the beast I would 
not poison it— I 
would drop it into 
a barrel of nitric 
acid and nail down 
the lid. 

A man some little 
way off, a perfect 
stranger, keeps a 
Danish boarhound 

of about the size of an ordinary donkey. This 
is a fine animal to look at — a long way off 
— but I do not like her muddy paws on my 
chest and her very' large tongue in my face. 
She does this sort of thing under pretence 
of extravagant friendship. I don't want her 
friendship ; I don't want her master's 

friendship — I don't know him, and it is a 
gross liberty for his dog to lick my 
spectacles off my nose. I don't want any- 
body's friendship ; I only want to be kit 
alone. In my troubles with this dog f it is 
some consolation to know that I am not the 
only sufferer. A mild Eastern gentleman, 
with a dark complexion and a fez cap, lives 
further up the terrace. He is somewhat of 
an enigma among the neighbours, and, 
except that he has had some Mohammedan 
tracts printe 1 in extraordinary English, 
which he furtively drops down areas to the 
scandalisation of the orthodox, there is no 
precise indication of his nationality. The 
Misses Pegram call him a u native l% — as 
though he were an oyster. He is a small 
man, and is almost as much a victim of 
that hoarhound's unwelcome attentions as I 
myself; not quite so much, of course, be- 

cause, as I 


it is all 


by t^ 



a conspiracy. Five 
times out of six, when this gentle Oriental 

passes my window, 
I observe as he 
approaches two (or 
more) immense 
muddy paw-marks 
on his otherwise 
we 1 1 - brush ed coa t 
— it is a singular 
property of this 
dog that her paws 
are always muddy, 
in any weather. 
When I see these 
paw -marks I know 
at once that I have 
only to wait until 
he passes to see an 
immense muddy or 
dusty patch in the 
rear of that re- 
spectable " native"; 
he always goes 
down before the 
boarhound's on- 
slaught. He told 
me sOj once, him- 
self, I had ob- 
served the dog 
approaching in an 
adjoining square, 
and retired up a secluded turning ; and 
the "native," from another side of the 
square, did the same. He understood our 
common motive, and said, "That canine 
tyke too much cheek got it ; he put feets 
on shoulder, you sit down on thoroughfare." 
There are other dogs whose annoyances 

Original from 


i ^ ^LpO -fj 


1 chiefly feel in 
my goings forth, 
The latest addi- 
tions to these are 
a Skye terrier and 
two dachshunds. 
Perhaps, on 
second thoughts, 
I ought to feel 
thankful that all 
this length of 
material is only 
cut up into three 
dogs instead of 
making a dozen, 
as it easily might, 
Yes, on the 
whole, I think I 
will be thankful, 
and say nothing 

more about these just yet, although their 
caterpillar appearance offends my eye to 
the extent of outrage, and they cause me 
delay in the street, each dog being a pro- 
cession in itself. Still they have not been 
here for long ; no doubt they will find some 
new way of annoying me soon. 

There is a raggy, nondescript sort of 
terrier about here which disturbs my nerves 
by futile attacks on cats. He is not a short 
haired terrier, neither is he long-haired — 
his skin is not unanimous on the question, 
I believe he belongs to somebody in the 
mews at the back ; but he chiefly lives 
and pursues his occupation of cat-chasing 
in front of the terrace. I never saw 
him catch a cat yet T although I have 
more than once seen a cat catch him* 
He is usually either in full chase, or 
barking and yelping noisily at bay, 
while the cat spits and dabs. There is 
a singular unanimity about the cats he 
demonstrates against ; they all choose 
my area railings as 






behind which to breathe defiance, and 
reach for that terrier's eyes, what time he 
barks and yells agonisingly. Of course, / 
must suffer in particular ; but that's part 
of the conspiracy. 

A man a few doors off keeps a collie — a 
mad, untamed sort of thing, which has a 
constitutional antagonism to all motion on 
the part of his surroundings, living or 
dead. He has a conviction amounting to a 
sort of religious belief that his mission in 
this world is to arrest and punish in the 
full of its career anything whatever that 

moves with any 
rapidity. If a han- 
som passes he flies 
like a thunderbolt 
at the horse, miss- 
ing which, he bites 
the wheel savagely. 
Similarly he hurls 
himself at a cart, 
a bicycle, a horse, 
a running cat, or a 
bit of paper in the 
wind ; I have even 
seen him e n - 
deavour to devour 
a private omnibus. 
When Rlenkin- 
sop's chimney was 
on fire, and several 
fire-engines came, 
his fury was in* 
describable, so that 
1 quite hoped he 
would be run over ; 
but he wasn't. I 
begin to fear he 


Original from 



never will be. Again and again I have 
calculated from the table of probabilities 
how long an ordinary dog might expect 
to live, making an average of only twenty- 
seven such rushes at vehicles a day, and 
the period has passed many times over 
without an accident. Men who push bar- 
rows know this dog, and slacken their pace 
as they near him. I myself daren't run to 
catch a train ; he would lake a piece out of 
my calf if I did ; he growls menacingly at 
a sharp walk. And if I walk slowly he is 
apt to observe something else on the move, 
and take a short cut to it between my legs. 
He terrifies Miss Pegram and her pug in 
their brougham , which is a redeeming 
feature ; and 1 will say that I never yet 
saw him rush at a boy on an errand, or a 
telegraph messenger* 

I confess I was surprised and pained to 
find that my family solicitor had entered 
into the dog conspiracy, But, after all, he 
lets me off comparatively lightly. His dog 
is an immense St. Bernard, whose antago- 
nism is chiefly of a passive kind, and is only 
offered when I visit the house. He has a 
habit of lying at full length across door- 
ways, and pretends, in a sleepy sort of way, 
not to understand that he is causing an 
obstruction. If compelled to get up and 
make way, he first gives one a look of 
sorrowful reproach, and then slowly and 
resignedly gets upon his feet, all with an air 
of long-suffering martyrdom. Beyond this, 
and knocking me down two or three times, 
as well as shouldering a light table with loose 


by Google 

china and scalding tea bodily on to mv 
knees, I have really very little to complain 
of in this dog. Perhaps I am prejudiced in 
his favour because of an encounter of hU 
with Miss PegTam's toy spaniel. That 
wretched insect, secure in the presence of 
its mistress, made a furious snapping and 
yelping attack directed to the big dog's face, 
which it couldn't reach* This attack the 
majestic Bob (his name is Bob) loftily 
ignored, until it became an intolerable 
nuisance, whereupon he calmly lay down on 
the vile body of his tormentor, and suppressed 
it utterly. * For this I feel grateful to Bob, 
although he was guilty of the weakness of 
allowing the cur to be rescued from under 
him with no broken bones. 

Several of my neighbours 1 dogs add to 
their other persecutions the outrage peculiar 
to the swimming dog, I can never take a 
walk near a pond t lake, canal, or any other 
body of water larger than a puddle without 
suffering from some brute which is called 
an *' excellent water dog. n They are 
usually long-haired dogs with coats which 
hold plenty of water ; that is part of the 
scheme. A dog of this sort will swim 
about in a muddy pond after sticks and 
stones thrown in by malevolent idiots on 
the banks, and, when his coat is thoroughly 
and completely saturated, will CTawi out 
carefully, taking pains to drop as it t tie of 
the water as possible until the proper time. 
He will then look about him and select the 
best dressed person within easy reach ; he 
will quietly sidle up to this person — from 
behind, if possible — and, with a 
sudden jerk and shake of his hide 
(a movement acquired by long 
practice), he will discharge a 
shower of several quarts of dirty 
water over his victim, who 
then expected to smile 
rfully, and pat him, 
nyself am not usually a 
particularly well- 
dressed person, so 
that if / happen to 
be present this con- 
dition of the per- 
formance is varied 
— he always comes 
to me. No matter 
how many better 
dressed people may 
be temptingly with- 
in range, he invari- 
ably disregards theni 
and comes to me. 
Original from 





It's part of the conspiracy. Now 1 ask, 
for whose benefit do the ponds of High gate 
exist ? For that of the British public. 
And am I not one of the British public ? 
Of course I am. Then, I ask, sir, what 
about Magna Charta ? What about my 
trousers ? Are they a carpet, sir, or a 
flower bed, or a gravestone, that they 
should be drenched with the muddy tears 
of Highgate Ponds ? Are my coat-tails 
the coat-tails of a free-born Englishman or 
not ? Very well, then, sir— — 

Now there goes a dog which is 
a nuisance and terror to the whole 
neighbourhood- If he were an 
equal nuisance all round I wouldn't 
mind ; I might extract satisfaction 
from the annoyance of the neigh- 
bours. But he isn't. Of course, 
it is invariably my doorstep upon 
which he sits to scratch himself, 
my housemaid or my visitors whom 
he snaps at when they attempt to 
pass, my area whence he steals 
food while the cook talks to the 
butcher, and my area in which he 
turns,. at bay when chased by in- 
dignant but dirty boys. He is a 
good -sized black dog, and attempts 
to pass himself off as a retriever 
on the strength of some very dis- 
tant connection with the retriever 

family on the part of 
a remote ancestor. 
He gets his living 
chiefly by stealing, 
but largely by de- 
luding boys . He pos- 
sesses them with the 
idea that he is a re- 
triever, and will prove 
a useful acquisition 
on a sporting expedi- 
tion—when they buy 
an old pistol for half- 
a-crown, for instance, 
and go out to shoot 
larks. He sponges on 
those boys and steals 
their lunch* He gets 
them into all sorts of 
scrapes, and finally 
turns and rends their 
trousers ; for ever 
after which those boys 
pursue him with ex- 
ecrations and brick- 
bats. I should not 
object to this, if none 
of the brickbats came into my area and 
broke my windows, but they do. He tells 
other boys that he can swim, and they form 
a small party to witness his performance. 
He can't and won't swim, but he killsafowl 
or steals something off a butcher's bench, 
and the boys have to cut and run. This sort 
of thing has gone on until almost every boy 
has found him out, and his enemies conse- 
quently are many. Every boy's hand, boot, 
stick, or tin kettle is against him, and every 
boy's corduroy j are familiar in his mouth 



by Google 

Original from 



as household scraps. Still he/manages to 
find a few guileless boys now and again- — 
new to London, I expect — who at first take 
him at his own valuation before passing 
over to the ranks of the bitten and hostile. 
They even take the vicious beast with them 
when they go fishing, with a bent pin and 
a tin can. t wonder why. 

If anything were wanting further to 
illustrate the completeness of the plot 
against my peace of mind, it would be 

> e-_ ^v^jwaZi 

"the stray mongreu" 

found in the stray mongrel machination. 
There is a kind of dog whom nobody ever 
owns — whom no reasonable person ever 
would think of owning ; but all the dogs of 
this kind insist upon being owned by me. 
I scarcely go out but one of these miserable 
creatures follows me. He avoids attracting 
my attention at first, but trots quietly at my 
heels, probably being of the opinion that if 
only he kfceps by me long enough I shall 
begin to believe after all that he really does 
belong to me, and has all his 
life. He always has a broken 
oiece of string hanging from 
lis neck, which leads me to 
relieve that some- 
body has been trying 
to drown him, with a 
brick, and has failed, 
Nothing will shake 

him off". If I go into a house, he 
tries to follow me; and, if prevented, 
sits on the doorstep and waits till I 
come out. When at last I seek refuge in 
my own house, he sits on my doorstep all 
night and howls in response to Blenkin sop's 
tripe-hound. Finally, I have to bribe a boy 
to steal him from me. 

But there is one 
dog about here 
which, I verily 
believe, has no- 
thing to do with 
the conspiracy. 
He is a bull-dog, 
and I think comes 
from the mews, 
I never heard this 
dog bark or howl, 
and never heard 
of his hurting a 
soul. Neverthe- 
less many ladies 
— including, I am 
glad to say, the 
Misses Pegram— fall into fits of terror 
at his approach. He lumbers along at a 
stable boy's heels, with the broadest and 
most amiable of grins, and other dogs keep 
out his way— the black dog vanishes 
entirely, It is just possible that that 
black dog snapped at him once, or perhaps 
attempted to take a sample of the stable- 
boy*s trousers, and consequently feels an 
awkwardness about meeting him again. 
But who shall know the ways of dogs? 
Perhaps, while I am praising 
this very bull-dog, he is filling 
that immense mouth of his from 
some inoffensive person's leg 
But, as the leg isn*t 
mine, and I hate un- 
reasonable gru m fa- 
ll ng, I won't grumble 
about that* 

Original from 

Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. 


By A. Coxan Doyle. 


N glancing over my notes of 
the seventy odd cases in which 
I have during the last eight 
years studied the methods of 
my friend Sherlock Holmes, 

I find 

many tragic, some 

comic, a large number merely strange, but 
none Commonplace ; for, working as he did 
rather for the love of his art than for the 
acquirement of wealth, he refused to asso- 
ciate himself with any investigation which 
did not tend towards the unusual, and even 
the fantastic. Of all these varied cases, 
however, I cannot recall any which presented 
more singular features than that which was 
associated Avith the well-known Surrey 
family of the Roylotts of Stoke Moran. 
The events in question occurred in the 
early days of my association with Holmes, 
when we were sharing rooms as bachelors, 
in Baker-street. It is possible that I might 
have placed them, upon record before, but 
a promise of secrecy was madbe at the time, 
from which I have only been freed during 
the last month by the untimely death of 
the lady to whom the pledge was given. 
It is perhaps as well that the facts should 
now come to light, for I have reasons to 
know that there are widespread rumours as 
to the death ot Dr. Grimesby Roylott which 
tend to make the matter even more terrible 
than the truth. 

It was early in April in the year '83 that 
I woke one morning to find Sherlock 
Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side 
of my bed. He was a late riser as a rule, 
and, as the clock on the mantelpiece showed 
me that it was only a quarter past seven, I 
blinked up at him in some surprise, and 
perhaps just a little resentment, for I was 
myself regular in my habits. 

44 Very sorry to knock you up, Watson/ 1 
said he, " but it's the common lot this 
morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked 
up, she retorted upon me, and I on you." 

M What is it, then ? A fire ? " 

44 No, a client. It seems that a young 

lady has arrived in a considerable state of 
excitement, who insists upon seeing me. 
She is waiting now in the sitting-room. 
Now, when young ladies wander about the 
Metropolis at this hour of the morning, 
and knock sleepy people up out of their 
beds, I presume that it is something very 
pressing which they have to communicate. 
Should it prove to be an interesting case, 
you would, I am sure, wish to follow it 
from the outset. I thought at any rate 
that I should call you, and give you the 


44 My dear fellow, I would not miss it for 

I had no keener pleasure than in following 
Holmes in his professional investigations, 
and in admiring the rapid deductions, as 
swift as intuitions, and yet always founded 
on a logical basis, with which he unravelled 
the problems which were submitted to him. 
I rapidly threw on my clothes, and was 
ready in a few minutes to accompany my 
friend down to the sitting-room. A lady 
dressed in black and heavily veiled, who 
had been sitting in the window, rose as we 

44 Good morning, madam," said Holmes, 
cheerily. 44 My name is Sherlock Holmes. 
This is my intimate friend and associate, 
Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak 
as freely as before myself. Ha, I am glad 
to see that Mrs. Hudson has had the good 
sense to light the fire. Pray draw up to it, 
and I shall order you a cup of hot coffee, 
for I observe that you are shivering." 

44 It is not cold which makes me shiver," 
said the woman in a low voice, changing 
her seat as requested. 

44 What then?" 

44 It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror." 
She raised her veil as she spoke, and we 
could see that she was indeed in a pitiable 
state of agitation, her face all drawn 2nd 
grey, with restless, frightened eyes, like 
those of some hunted animal. Her features 
and figure were those of a woman of thirty, 



poor fellow, can 
be of little aid. 
1 have heard of 
you, Mr. Holmes; 
I have heard of 
you from Mis. 
Farintosh, whom 
you helped in 
the hour of her 
sore need. It was 
from her that I 
had your address. 






but her hair was shot with premature grey, 
and her expression was weary and haggard. 
Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one of 
his quick, all-comprehensive glances* 

M You must not fear," said he, soothingly t 
bending forward and patting her forearm* 
41 We shall soon set matters right, I have 
no doubt. You have come in by train this 
morning, I see." 

44 You know me, then ? " 

44 No, but I observe the second half of a 
return ticket in the palm of your left glove. 
You must have started early, and yet you 
had a good drive in a dog-cart, along heavy 
roads, before you reached the station." 

The lady gave a violent start, and stared 
in bewilderment at my companion, 

u There is no mystery, my dear madam," 
said he, smiling. i4 The left arm of your 
jacket is spattered with mud in no less than 
seven places. The marks are perfectly 
fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart 




left hand 

which throws up mud in 
then only when you sit on 
side of the driver." 

u Whatever your reasons may be, you 
are perfectly correct," said she. 4 * I started 
from home "before six, reached Leatherhvad 
at twenty past, and came in by the first 
train to Waterloo. Sir, I can "stand this 
strain no longer, I shall go mad if it con- 
tinues. I have no one to turn to— none, 
save only one, who cares for me, and he, 

think that 
could help 
me too, and at 
least throw a 
little light 
thro ugh the 
dense darkness 
which surrounds 
me ? At present 
it is out of my 
power to reward 
you for your ser- 
vices, but in a 
month or six weeks I shall he married, 
with the control of my own income, and 
then at least you shall not find me ungrate- 

Holmes turned to his desk, and unlocking 
it, drew out a small case-book which he 

u Farintosh, u said he. w Ah, yes, I recall 
the case ; it was concerned with an opal 
tiara, I think it was before your time, 
Watson. I can only say, madam, that I 
shall be happy to devote the same care to 
your case as I did to that of your friend. 
As to reward, my profession is its own 
reward ; but you are at liberty to defray 
whatever expenses I may be put to, at the 
time which suits you best. And now I beg 
that you will lay before us everything that 
may help us in forming an opinion upon 
the" matter/ 1 

(l Alas!" replied our visitor. "The very 
horror of my situation lies in the fact that 
my fears are' so vague, and n.y suspicions 
depend so entirely upon small points, which 
might seem trivial to another, that even he 
to whom of all others I have a right lo 
look for help and advice looks upon all 
that I tell him about it as the fancies of a 
nervous woman. He does not say so, but I 
can read it from his soothing answers and 
averted eves. But I have heard, Mr. 
Holmes, that you can see deeply into the 

mani %l#*ifT^ uman heart " 




You may advise me how to walk amid the 
dangers which encompass me." 

" I am all attention, madam." 

" My name is Helen Stoner, and I am 
living with my stepfather, who is the last 
survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families 
in England, the Roylotts of Stoke Moran, 
on the western border of Surrey. 1 ' 

Holmes nodded his head, 4i The name 
is familiar to me," said he* 

"The family was at one time among the 
richest in England, and the estates extended 
over the borders into Berkshire in the 
north, and Hampshire in the west. In the 
last century, however, four successive heirs 
were of a dissolute and wasteful disposition, 
and the family ruin was eventually com- 
pleted by a gambler in the days of the 
Regency, Nothing was left save a few 
acres of ground, and the two-hundred -year- 
old house, which is itself crushed under a 
heavy mortgage. The last squire dragged 
out his existence there, living the horrible 
life of an aristocratic pauper ; but his only 
son, my stepfather, seeing that he must adapt 
himself to the new conditions, obtained an 
advance from a relative, which enabled him 
to take a medical degree, and went out to 
Calcutta, where, by his professional skill 
and his force of char act er, he established 
a large practice. In a fit of anger, how- 
ever, caused by some robberies which 
had been perpetrated in the house, he 
beat his native butler to death, and nar- 
rowly escaped a capital sentence. As it ( 
was, he suffered a long term of im- ( 
prison men t, and afterwards returned to 
England a morose and disappointed man. ; 

i4 When Dr. Roylott was in India he 
married, my mother, Mrs, Stoner, the 
young widow of Major- General Stoner, 
of the Bengal Artillery, My sister Julia 
and I were twins, and we were only two 
years old at the time of my mother's re- 
marriage. She had a considerable sum 
of money, not less than a thousand a 
year, and this she bequeathed to Dr* 
Roylott entirely whilst we resided with 
him, with a provision that a certain 
annual sum should be allowed to each 
of us in the event of our marriage. 
Shortly after our return to England my 
mother died — she was killed eight years 
ago in a railway accident near Crewe, 
Dr. Roylott then abandoned his attempts 
to establish himself in practice in Lon- 
don, and took us to live with him in 
the old ancestral house at Stoke Moran. 
The money which my mother had kft. 

was enough for all our wants, and there 
seemed to be no obstacle to our happiness, 

44 But a terrible change came over our step- 
father about this time. Instead of making 
friends and exchanging visits with our 
neighbours, who had at first been over- 
joyed to see a Roylott of Stoke Moran back 
in the old family seat, he shut himself up 
in his house, and seldom came out save to 
indulge in ferocious quarrels with whoever 
might cross his path. Violence of temper 
approaching to mania has been hereditary in 
the men of the family, and in my stepfather's 
case it had, I believe, been intensified by 
his long residence in the tropics* A series 
of disgraceful brawls took place, two of 
which ended in the police-court, until at 
last he became the terror of the village, and 
the folks would fly at his approach, for he 
is a man of immense strength, and abso- 
lutely uncontrollable in his anger. 

44 Last week he hurled the local black- 
smith over a parapet into a stream, and it 
was only by paying over all the money 
which I could gather together that I was 
able to avert another public exposure. He 
had no friends at all save the wandering 
gipsies, and he would give these vagabonds 
leave to encamp upon the few acres of 

Original from 

:E| A FAhAT'ET, 



bramble-covered land which represent the 
family estate, and would accept in return 
the hospitality of their tents, wandering 
away with them sometimes for weeks on 
end. He has a passion also for Indian ani- 
mals, which are sent over to him by a 
correspondent, and he has at this moment a 
cheetah and a baboon, which wander freely 
over his grounds, and are feared by the 
villagers almost as much as their master. 

" You can imagine from what I say that 
my poor sister Julia and I had no great 
pleasure in our lives. No servant would 
stay with us, and for a long time we did all 
the work of the house. She was but thirty 
at the time of her death, and yet her hair 
had already begun to whiten, even as mine 

44 Your sister is dead, then ? " 

44 She died just two years ago, and it is of 
her death that I wish to speak to you. You 
can understand that, living the life which I 
have described, we were little likely to see 
anyone of our own age and position. We 
had, however, an aunt, my mother's maiden 
sister, Miss Honoria Westphail, who lives 
near Harrow, and we were occasionally 
allowed to pay short visits at this lady's 
house* Julia went there at Christmas two 
years ago, and met there a half-pay Major of 
Marines, to whom she became engaged. My 
stepfather learned of the engagement when 
my sister returned, and offered no objection 
to the marriage ; but within a fortnight of 
the day which had been fixed for the wed- 
ding, the terrible event occurred which has 
deprived me of my only companion. " 

Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back 
in his chair with his eyes closed, and his 
head sunk in a cushion, but he half opened 
his lids now, and glanced across at his 

" Pray be precise as to details," s^id he. 

44 It is easy for me to be so, for every event of 
that dreadful time is seared into my memory. 
The manor house is, as I have already 
said, very old, and only one wing is now 
inhabited. The bedrooms in this wing are 
on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms being 
in the central block of the buildings. Of 
these bedrooms the first is Dr. Roylott's, the 
second my sister's, and the third my own. 
There is no communication between them, 
but they all open out into the same corridor. 
Do I make myself plain ? " 

44 Perfectly so." 

44 The windows of the three rooms open 
out upon the lawn. That fatal night Dr. 
Roylott had gone to his room early, though 

Digitized by L^OOgle 

we knew that he had not retired to rest, for 
my sister was troubled by the smell of the 
strong Indian cigars which it was his custom 
to smoke. She left her room, therefore, 
and came into mine, where she sat for some 
time, chatting about her approaching wed- 
ding, At eleven o'clock she rose to leave 
me, but she paused at the door and looked 

44 * Tell me, Helen/ said she, 4 have you 
ever heard anyone whistle in the dead of 
the night ? ' 

44 4 Never,* said I. 

44 4 I suppose that you could not possibly 
whistle yourself in your sleep ? ' 

44 4 Certainly not. But why ? ' 

44 4 Because during the last few nights I 
have always, about three in the morning, 
heard a low clear whistle. I am a light 
sleeper, and it has awakened me. I cannot 
tell where it came from — perhaps from the 
next room, perhaps from the lawn . I thought 
that I would just ask you whether you had 
heard it.' 

44 4 No, I have not. It must be those 
wretched gipsies in the plantation.' 

44 4 Very likely. And yet if it were on the 
lawn I wonder that you did not hear it 

44 4 Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you.' 

44 4 Well, it is of no gre^t consequence at 
any rate,' she imiled back at me, closed my 
door, and a few moments later I heard her 
key turn in the lock." 

44 Indeed," said Holmes. 44 Was it your 
custom always to lock yourselves in at 
night ? " 

44 Always." 

44 And why?" 

44 1 think that I mentioned to you that 
the Doctor kept a cheetah and a baboon. 
We had no feeling of security unless our 
doors were locked." 

44 Quite so. Pray proceed with your 

44 1 could not sleep that night. A vague 
feeling of impending misfortune impressed 
me. My sister and I, you will recollect, 
were twins, and you know how subtle are 
the links which bind two souls which are 
so closely allied. It was a wild night. The 
wind was howling outside, and the rain was 
beating and splashing against the windows. 
Suddenly, amidst all the hubbub of the 
gale, there burst forth the wild scream of 
a terrified woman. I knew that it was my 
sister's voice. I sprang from my bed, 
wrapped a shawl round me, and rushed into 
the corridor As I opened my door I 




seemed to hear a low whistle, such as my 
sister described, and a few moments later a 
clanging sound, as if a mass of metal had 
fallen. As I ran down the passage my 
sister's door was un locked, and revolved 
slowly upon its hinges. I stared at it 
horror-stricken, not knowing what was 
about to issue from it. By the light of the 
corridor lamp I saw my sister appear at th^ 
opening, her face blanched with terror, her 
hands groping for help, her whole figure 
swaying to and fro like that of a drunkard, 
I ran to her and threw my arms round her, 
but at that moment her knees seemed to 
give way and she fell to the ground* She 
writhed as one who is in terrible pain, and 
her limbs were dreadfully convulsed. At 
first I thought that she had not recognised 
me, but as I bent over her she suddenly 

she was unconscious, and though he poured 
brandy down her throat, and sent for 
medical aid from the village, all efforts were 
in vain, for she slowly sank and died without 
having recovered her consciousness. Such 
was the dreadful end of my beloved sister. 7 ' 

" One moment, !T said Holmes ; (< are you 
sure about this whistle and metallic sound? 
Could you swear to it ? " 

"That was what the county coroner 
asked me at the inquiry. It is my strong 
impression that I heard it, and yet among 
the crash of the gale, and the creaking of 
an old house, I may possibly have been 

u Was your sister dressed ? tT 

M No, she was in her nightdress. In her 
right hand was found the charred stump of 
a match j and in her left a matchbox." 


shrieked out in a voice whicli I shall never 
forget, ' Oh, my God ! Helen ! It was the 
band! The speckled band!' There was 
something else which shewoull fain have 
said, and she stabbed with her finger into 
the air in the direction of the Doctor's 
room, but a fresh convulsion seized her and 
choked her words* I rushed out, calling 
loudly for my stepfather, and I met him 
hastening from his room in his dressing- 
gown. When he reached my sister's side 

Digitized by GoOgJC 

*' Showing that she had struck a light 
and looked about her when the alarm took 
place. That is important. And what con- 
clusions did the coroner come to ? ft 

" He investigated the case with great 

care, for Dr, Roylott's conduct had long been 

notorious in the county, but he was unable 

to find any satisfactory cause of death. My 

evidence showed that the door had been 

fastened upon the inner side, and the 

windows ivere blocked by old -fashioned 
Original from 




shutters 1 with broad iron bars, which were 
secured every night. The walls were care- 
fully sounded, and were shown to be quite 
solid all round, and the flooring was also 
thoroughly examined, with the same result. 
The chimney is wide, but is barred up by 
four large staples. It is certain, therefore, 
that my sister was quite alone when she 
met her end. Besides, there were no marks 
of any violence upon her." 
" How about poison ? " 
44 ^he doctors examined her for it, but 
without success." 

u What do you think that this unfortu- 
nate lady died of, then ? " 

44 It is my belief that she died of pure 
fear and nervous shock, though what it was 
which frightened her I cannot imagine." 

44 Were there gipsies in the plantation at 
the time ? " 

11 Yes, there are nearly always some 

u Ah, and what did you gather from this 
allusion to a band — a speckled band ? " 

44 Sometimes I have thought that it was 
merely the wild talk of delirium, sometimes 
that it may have referred to some band of 
people, perhaps to these very gipsies in the 
plantation. I do not know whether the 
spotted handkerchiefs which so many of 
them wear over their heads might have 
suggested the strange adjective which she 

Holmes shook his head like a man who 
is far from being satisfied. 

44 These are very deep waters," said he ; 
11 pray go on with your narrative." 

44 Two years have passed since then , and my 
life has been until lately lonelier than ever. 
A month ago, however, a dear friend, whom I 
have known for many years, has done me 
the honour to ask my hand in marriage. 
His name is Armitage — Percy Armitage — 
the second son of Mr. Armitage, of Crane 
Water, near Reading. My stepfather has 
offered no opposition to the match, and we 
are to be married in the course of the 
spring. Two days ago some repairs were 
started in the west wing of the building, 
and my bedroom wall has been pierced, so 
that I have had to move into the chamber 
in which my sister died, and to sleep in the 
very bed in which she slept. Imagine, 
then, my thrill of terror when last night, 
as I lay awake, thinking over her terrible 
fate, I suddenly heard in the silence of the 
night the low whistle which had been the 
herald of her own death. I sprang up and 
lit the lamp, but nothing was to be seen in 

the room. I was too shaken to go to bed 
again, however, so I dressed, and as soon as 
it was daylight I slipped down, got a dog- 
cart at the * Crown ' inn, which is oppc- 
site, and drove to Leatherhead, from whence 
I have come on this morning with the one 
object of seeing you and asking your 

44 You have done wisely," said my friend. 
44 But have you told me all ? " 

44 Yes, all." 

44 Miss Roylott, you have not. You are 
screening your stepfather." 

44 Why, what do you mean ? " 

For answer Holmes pushed back the frill 
of black lace which fringed jthe hand that 
lay upon our visitor's knee. Five little 
livid spots, the marks of four fingers and a 
thumb, were printed upon the white wrist. 

44 You have been cruelly used," said 

The lady coloured deeply, and "covered 
over her injured wrist. 44 He is a hard 
man," she said, 44 and perhaps he hardly 
knows his own strength." 

There was a long silence, during which 
Holmes leaned his chin upon his hands and 
stared into the crackling fire. 

44 This is a very deep business," he said 
at last. "There are a thousand details 
which I should desire to know before I 
decide upon our course of action. Yet we 
have not a moment to lose. If we were to 
come to Stoke Mofan to-day, would it be 
possible for us to see over these rooms 
without the knowledge of your stepfather ? " 

44 As it happens, he spoke of coming into 
town to-day upon some most important 
business. It is probable that he will- be 
away all day, and that there would be 
nothing to disturb you. We have a house- 
keeper now, but she is old and foolish, a-nd 
I could easily get her out of the way." 

44 Excellent. You are not averse to this 
trip, Watson ? " 

44 By no means." 

44 Then we shall both come. What are 
you going to do yourself ? " 

44 1 have one or two things which I would 
wish to do now that I am in town. But I 
shall return by the twelve o'clock train, so 
as to be there in time for your coming." 

44 And you may expect us early in the 
afternoon. I have myself some small 
business matters to attend to. Will you 
not wait and breakfast ? " 

44 No, I must go. My heart is lightened 
already since I have confided my trouble to 
you. I shall look forward to seeing you 

by V_ 



■■-■I I '-| 1 1 I :i I I \s 




again this afternoon/ 1 She dropped her 
thick black veil over her face 3 and glided 
from the room. 

"And what do you think of it all, 
Watson ? " asked Sherlock Holmes, leaning 
back in his chair, 

11 It seems to me to be a mo^t dark and 
sinister business." 

11 Dark enough, and sinister enough, ■' 

M Yet if the lady is correct in saying that 
the flooring and walls are sound, and that 
the door, window, and chimney are im- 
passable, then her sister must have been 
undoubtedly alone when she met her 
mysterious end," 

'* What becomes, then, of these nocturnal 
whistles, and 
what of the very 
peculiar words 
of the dying 
woman ? 5T 

" I can not 

44 When you 
combine the 
ideas of whistles 
at night, the 
presence of a 
band of gipsies 
who are on in- 
timate terms 
with this old 
Doctor, the fact 
that we have 
every reason to 
believe that the 
Doctor has an 
interest in pre- 
vent! rig his 
marriage, the 
dying allusion 
to a band, and 
finally, the fact 
that Miss Helen 
Sloncr heard a 

metallic clang, which might have been 
caused by one of those metal bars which 
secured the shutters falling back into their 
place, I think that there is good ground to 
think that the mystery may be cleared 
along those lines. 11 

41 But what, then, did the gipsies do ? Tt 

"I cannot imagine.- ' 

*' I see many objections to any such 

14 And so do I. It is precisely for that 
reason that we are going to Stoke Moran 
this day. I want to see whether the objec- 


tions are fatal, or if they may he explained 
away. But what, in the name of the 
devil ! w 

The ejaculation had been drawn from my 
companion by the fact that our door had 
been suddenly dashed open, and that a huge 
man had framed himself in the aperture. 
His costume was a peculiar mixture of the 
professional and of the agricultural, having 
a black top hat, a long frock coat, and a pair 
of high gaiters, with a hunting crop swing- 
ing in his hand. So tall was he that his 
hat actually brushed the cross bar of the 
doorway, and his breadth seemed to span it 
across from side to side, A large face, 
seaTed with a thousand wrinkles, burned 

yellow with the 
sun, and marked 
with every evil 
passion, was 
turned from one 
to the other of 
us, while his 
deep-set, bile- 
shot eyes, and 
his high thin 
flesh less nose, 
gave him some- 
what the re- 
semblance to a 
fierce old bird 
of prev- 

"Which of 
you is Holmes?" 
asked this ap- 

k * My name, 
sir, but you 
have the advan- 
tage of me, 11 
said my com- 
panion, quietly, 
"I am Dr. 
Grimesby Roy- 
lot t, of Stoke 
Moran. w 

11 Indeed, Doc- 
tor," said 
Holmes, blandly- u Pray take a seat." 

" I will do nothing of the kind. My step- 
daughter has been here. I have traced her. 
What has she been saving to you ? T1 

11 It is a little cold lor the time of the 
year," said Holmes. 

*'What has shebeen saying to you?" 
screamed the old man furiously, 

li But I have heard that the crocuses 
promise well " continued 

my companion 

by Ot 


Original from 



44 Ma ! You put me off, do you ? " said our 
new visitor, taking a step forward, and 
shaking his hunting crop. " I know you, 
you scoundrel ! I have heard of you before. 
You are Holmes the meddler." 

My friend smiled. 

44 Holmes the busybody ! " 

His smile broadened. 

44 Holmes the Scotland-yard Jack- in - 
office ! " 

Holmes chuckled heartily. " Your con- 
versation is most entertaining," said he. 
44 When you go out close the door, for there 
is a decided draught." 

44 1 will go when I have said my say. 
Don't you dare to meddle with my affairs. 
I know that Miss Stoner has been here — I 
traced her ! I am a dangerous m^n to fall 
foul of! See here." He stepped swiftly 
forward, seized the poker, and bent it into 
a curve with his huge brown hands. 

44 See that you keep yourself out of my 
grip," he snarled, and hurling the twisted 
poker into the fireplace, he strode out of 
the room. 

44 He seems a very amiable person," said 
Holmes, laughing. " I am not quite so 
bulky, but if he had remained I might have 
shown him that my grip was not much 
more feeble than his own." As he spoke 
he picked up the steel poker, and with a 
sudden effort straightened it out again. 

44 Fancy his having the insolence to con- 
found me with the official detective force ! 
This incident gives zest to our investiga- 
tion, however, and I only trust that our 
little friend will not suffer from her impru- 
dence in allowing this brute to trace her. 
And now, Watson, we shall order break- 
fast, and afterwards I shall walk down to 
Doctors' Commons, where I hope to get 
some data which may help us in this 

It was nearly one o'clock when Sherlock 
Holmes returned from his excursion. He 
held in his hand a sheet of blue paper, 
scrawled over with notes and figures. 

44 1 have seen the will of the deceased 
wife," said he. 4< To determine its exact 
meaning I have been obliged to work out 
the present prices of the investments with 
which it is concerned. The total income, 
which at the time of the wife's death was 
little short of ^i,ioo, is now through the 
fell in agricultural prices not more than 
^750. Each daughter can claim an income 
of ^"250, in case of marriage. It is evident, 
therefore, that if both girls had married 

Digitized by CjOOQ IC 

this beauty would have had a mere pittance, 
while even one of them would cripple him 
to a very serious extent. My morning's 
work has not been wasted, since it has 
proved that he has the very strongest motives 
for standing in the way of anything of the 
sort. And now, Watson, this is too serious 
for dawdling, especially as the old man is 
aware that we are interesting ourselves in 
his affairs, so if you are ready we shall call 
a cab and drive to Waterloo. I should be 
very much obliged if you would slip your 
revolver into your pocket. An Eley's No. 2 
is an excellent argument with gentlemen 
who can twist steel pokers into knots. That 
and a tooth-brush are, I think, all that we 

At Waterloo we were fortunate in catch- 
ing a train for Leatherhead, where we hired 
a trap at the station inn, and drove for four 
or five miles through the lovely Surrey 
lanes. It was a perfect day, with a bright 
sun and a few fleecy clouds in the heavens. 
The trees and wayside hedges were just 
throwing out their first green shoots, and 
the air was full of the pleasant smell of the 
moist earth. To me at least there was a 
strange contrast between the sweet promise 
of the spring and this sinister quest upon 
which we were engaged. My companion 
sat in the front of the trap, his arms folded, 
his hat pulled down over his eyes, and his 
chin sunk upon his breast, buried in the 
deepest thought. Suddenly, however, he 
started, tapped me on the shoulder, and 
pointed over the meadows. 

44 Look there ! " said he. 

A heavily-timbered park stretched up in 
a gentle slope, thickening into a grove at 
the highest point. From amidst the 
branches there jutted out the grey gables 
and high roof-tree of a very old mansion. 

44 Stoke Moran ? " said he. 

44 Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. 
Grimesby Roylott," remarked the driver. 

" There is some building going on there," 
said Holmes; " that is where we are going." 

44 There's the village," said the driver, 
pointing to a cluster of roofs some distance 
to the left ; 4t but if you want to get to the 
house, you'll find it shorter to get over this 
stile, and so by the footpath over the 
fields. There it is, where the lady is 

44 And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner," 
observed Holmes, shading his eyes. " Yes, 
I think we had better do as you suggest." 

We got off, paid our fare, and the trap 
rattled back on its way to Leatherhead 

■-■I I '-| 1 1 I tf I I I _' 





" I thought it as well,*' said Holmes, as 
we climbed the stile, "that this fellow 
should think we had come here as archi- 
tects, or on some definite business It may 
stop his gossip. Good afternoon , Miss 
St oner. You see that we have been as 
good as our word. 7 ' 

Our client of the morning had hurried 
forward to meet us with a face which spoke 
her joy, *' I have been waiting so eagerly 
for you/ 1 she cried, shaking hands with us 
warmly. ki All has turned out splendidly. 
Dr. Roy lot! has gone to town, and it is 
unlikely that he will be back before 

14 We have had the pleasure of making 
the Doctor's acquaintance/* said Holmes, 
and in a few words he sketched out what 
had occurred, Miss St oner turned white 
to the lips as she listened. 

"Good heavens! 71 she cried) "he has 
followed me, then. tT 

"So it appears." 

u He is so cunning that I never know 
when I am safe from him. What will he 
say when he returns ? " 

u He must guard himself, for he may find 
that there is someone more cunning than 
himself upon his track. You must lock 
yourself up from him to-night, If he is 
violent, we shall take ycu away to your 
aunt's at Harrow. Now, we must make 
the best use of our time, so kindly take us 
at once to the rooms which we are to 

The building was of grey, lichen -blotched 

by Google 

stone, with a high 
central portion , 
and two curving 
wings, like the 
claws of a crab, 
thrown out on 
each side. In 
one of these wings 
the windows 
were broken, and 
blocked with 
wooden boards, 
while the roof 
was partly caved 
in, a picture of 
ruin. The central 
portion was? hi 
little better re- 
pair, but the 
right-hand block 
was compara- 
tively modern, 
and the blinds in 
the windows, with the blue smoke curling 
up from the chimneys, showed that this was 
where the family resided. Some scaffolding 
had been erected against the end wall, and 
the stonework had been broken into, but 
there were no signs of any workmen at the 
moment of our visit. Holmes walked slowly 
up and down the ill-trimmed lawn, and 
examined with deep attention the outsides 
of the windows. 

u This, I take it, belongs to the room in 
which you used to sleep, the centre one to 
your sister's, and the one next to the main 
building to Dr + Roylott's chamber ? M 

■' Exactly so. But I am now sleeping in 
the middle one/ 1 

Cl Pending the alterations, as I under- 
stand. By the way, there does not seem to 
be any very pressing need for repairs at 
that end wall." 

" There were none, I believe that it was 
an excuse to move me from my room." 

" Ah ! that is suggestive. Now, on the 
other side of this narrow wing runs the 
corridor from which these three rooms 
open. There are windows in it, of course ? " 
M Yes, but very small ones. Too narrow 
for anyone to pass through." 

M As you both locked your doors at night 
your rooms were unapproachable from that 
side. Now, would you have the kindness 
to go into your room, and to bar your 

Miss Stoner did so, and Holmes, after a 
careful examination through the open 
window, endeavoured in every way to force 
Original from 




the shutter open, but without success. 
There was no slit through which a knife 
could be passed to raise the bar. Then 
with his lens he tested the hinges, but they 
were of solid iron, built firmly into the 
massive masonry. 44 Hum ! " said he, 
scratching his chin in some perplexity, 
44 my theory certainly presents some diffi- 
culties. No one could pass thc:e shutters 
if they were bolted. Well, we shall see if 
the inside throws any light upon the 

A small side door led into the white- 
washed corridor from which the three bed- 
rooms opened. Holmes refused to examine 
the third chamber, so we passed at once to 
the second, that in which Miss Stoner was 
now sleeping, and in which her sister had 
met with her fate. It was a homely little 
room, with a low ceiling and a gaping fire- 
place, after the fashion of old country 
houses. A brown chest of drawers stood 
in one corner, a narrow white-counterpaned 
bed in another, and addressing-table on the 
left-hand side of the window. These 
articles, with two small wickerwork chairs, 
made up all the furniture in the room, save 
for a square of Wilton carpet in the centre. 
The boards round and the panelling of 
the walls were of brown, worm-eaten oak, 
so old and discoloured that it may have 
dated from the original building of the 
house. Holmes dre\y one of the chairs into 
a corner and sat silent, while his eyes 
travelled round and round and up and 
down, taking in every detail of the apart- 

"Where does that bell communicate 
with ? " he asked at last, pointing to a 
thick bell-rope which hung down beside 
the bed, the tassel actually lying upon the 

11 It goes to the housekeeper's room." 
" It looks newer than the other things?" 
44 Yes, it was only put there a couple of 
years ago." 

44 Your sister asked for it, T suppose ? " 
44 No, I never heard of her using it. We 
used always to get what we wanted for 

44 Indeed, it seemed unnecessary to put 
so nice a bell-pull there. You will excuse 
me for a few minutes while I satisfy myself 
as to this floor." He threw himself down 
upon his face with his lens in his hand, and 
crawled swiftly backwards and forwards, 
examining minutely the cracks between 
the boards. Then he did the same with 
the woodwork with which the chamber was 

by L^OOgle 

pan He J. Finally he walked over to the 
bed and spent some time in staring at it, and 
in running his eye up and down the wall. 
Finally he took the bell-rope in his hand 
and gave it a brisk tug. 

44 Why, it's a dummy," said he. 

44 Won't it ring ? " 

44 No, it is not even attached to a wire. 
This is very interesting. You can see now 
that it is fastened to a hook just above 
where the little opening for the ventilator 

44 How very absurd ! I never noticed that 

44 Very strange ! " muttered Holmes, 
pulling at the rope. 44 There are one or 
two very singular points about this room. 
For example, what a fool a builder must be 
to open a ventilator into another room, 
when, with the same trouble, he might 
have communicated with the outside air ! " 

44 That is also quite modern," said the 

44 Done about the same time as the bell- 
rope ? " remarked Holmes. 

44 Yes, there were several little changes 
carried out about that time." 

44 They seem to have been of a most 
interesting character — dummy bell-ropes, 
and ventilators which do not ventilate. 
With your permission, Miss Stoner, we 
shall now carry our researches into the 
inner apartment." 

Dr. Grimesby Roylott's chamber was 
larger than that of his step-daughter, but was 
as plainly furnished. A camp bed, a small 
wooden shelf full of books, mostly of a 
technical character, an armchair beside the 
bed, a plain wooden chair against the wall, 
a round table, and a large iron safe were 
the - principal things which met the eye. 
Holmes walked slowly round and examined 
each and all of them with the keenest 

44 What's in here ? " he asked, tapping 
the safe. 

44 My stepfather's business papers." 

44 Oh ! you have seen inside, then ? " 

44 Only once, some years ago. I remem- 
ber that it was full of papers." 

44 There isn't a cat in it, for example ? " 

44 No. What a strange idea ! " 

44 Well, look at this!" He took up a 
small saucer of milk which stood on the top 
of it. 

44 No ; we don't keep a cat. But there 
is a cheetah and a baboon." 

44 Ah, yes, of course ! Well, a cheetah 
is just a big cat 7 and yet a saucer of milk 





does not go very far in satis- 
fying its wants T I daresay 
There is one point which J 
should wish to 
determine." He 
squatted down 
in front of the 
wooden chair, 
and examined 
the seat of it 
with the great- 
est attention, 

" Thank you + 
That is quite 
settled/* said he, 
rising and put- 
ting his lens in 
his pocket. 
4i Hullo I here 
is something in- 
teresting 1" 

The object * 
which had 

caught his eye was a small dog lash hung 
on one corner of the bed. The lash, how- 
ever, was curled upon itself, and tied so 
as to make a loop of whipcord. 

u What do you make of that, Watson ? " 

''It's a common enough lash. But I 
don't know why it should be tied." 

"That is not quite so common, is it? 
Ah, me ! it's a wicked world, and when a 
clever man turns his brains to crime it is 
the worst of all. T think that I have seen 
enough now, Miss Stoner, and, with your per- 
mission, we shall walk out upon the lawn." 

I had never seen my friend's face so grim, 
or his brow so dark, as it was when we 
turned from the scene of this investigation. 
Wc had walked several times up and down 
the lawn, neither Miss Stoner nor myself 
liking to break in upon his thoughts, before 
he roused himself from his reverie. 

u It is very essential, Miss Stoner, 1 ' said 
he, " that you should absolutely follow my 
advice in every respect.' 1 

II I shall most certainly do so*" 

11 The matter is too serious for any hesi- 
tation. Your life may depend upon your 

U I assure that I am in your hands." 

11 In the first place, both my friend and I 
must spend the night in your room." 

Both Miss Stoner and I gazed at him in 

11 Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. I 
believe that that is the village inn over 
there ? " 

w Yes, that is the ' Crown/ " 

by Google 

11 Very good. Your windows would be 
visible from there ? " 

u Certainly," 

l -You must confine yourself to your 
room, on pretence of a headache, when your 
stepfather comes back. Then when you 
hear him retire for the night t you must 
open the shutters of your window, undo 
the hasp, put your lamp there as a signal to 
us, and then withdraw quietly with every- 
thing which you are likely to want into 
the room which you used to occupy. I 
have no doubt that, in spite of the repairs, 
you could manage there for one night." 

M Oh j yes, easily*" 

H The rest you will leave in our hands." 

11 But what will you do ? " 

"We shall spend the night in your room, 
and we shall investigate the cause of this 
noise which has disturbed you.'' 

" I believe, Mr. Holmes, that you have 
already made up your mind," said Miss 
Stoner, laying her hand upon my com- 
panion's sleeve. 

11 Perhaps I have." 

"Then for pity's sake tell me what was 
the cause of my sister's death " 

41 1 should prefer to have clearer proofs 
before I speak." 

" You can at least tell me whether my 
own thought is correct, and if she died from 
some sudden fright." 

11 No, I do not think so, I think that 

there was probably some more tangible 

cause. And now, Miss Stoner, we must 

leave you, for if Dr* Roylott returned and 

Original from 







saw us, our journey would be in vain. 
Good-bye, and be brave, for if you will do 
what I have told you, you may rest assured 
that we shall soon drive away the dangers 
that threaten you, 1 ' 

Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty 
in engaging a bedroom and sitting-room at 
the ''Crown" Inn* They were on the 
upper floor, and from our window we could 
command a view of the avenue gate, and 
of the inhabited wing of Stoke Moran 
Manor House. At dusk we saw Dn 
Grimesby Roylott drive past, his huge 
form looming up beside the little figure of 
the lad who drove him. The boy had 
some slight difficulty in undoing the heavy 
iron gates, and we heard the hoarse roar of 
the doctor's voice, and saw the fury with 
\schich he shook his clenched fists at him. 

The trap drove on, and a few 
minutes later we saw a sudden 
light spring up among the trees 
as the lamp was lit in one of the 

" Do you know, Watson, 1 ' said 
Holmes, as we sat together in 
the gathering darkness, "I have 
really some scruples as to taking 
you to-night. There is a distinct 
element of danger,'* 

u Can I be of assistance ? n 
" Your presence might be in- 
valuable. 11 

41 Then I shall certainly come/' 

" It is very kind of you/' 

" You speak of danger. You 

have evidently seen more in 

these rooms than was visible to 

me. 11 

" No, but I fancy that I may 
have deduced a little more. I 
imagine that you saw all that I 

"I saw nothing remarkable* 
save the bell rope, and what pur- 
pose that could answer I confess 
is more than I can imagine." 
M You saw the ventilator, too? " 
" Yes, but I do not think that 
it is such a very unusual thing 
to have a small opening between 
two rooms. It was so small that 
a rat could hardly pass through/' 
" T knew that we should find a 
ventilator before ever we came to 
Stoke Moran/ 1 

"My dear Holmes !" 
41 Oh, yes, I did. You remem- 
ber in her statement she said that 
her sister could smell Dr, Roylott's cigar. 
Now, of course that suggested at once that 
there must be a communication between 
the two rooms, It could only be a small 
one, or it would have been remarked upon 
at the Coroner's inquiry. I deduced a 

" But what harm can there be in that ? h 
11 Weil, there is at least a curious coinci- 
dence of dates, A ventilator is made, a 
cord is hung, and a lady who sleeps in the 
bed dies. Does not that strike you ? " 
u I cannot as yet see any connection." 
(i Did you observe anything very peculiar 
about that bed ? " 
M No/ 1 

u It was clamped to the floor. Did you 
ever see a bed fastened like that before ? " 

" I cannot say th^t I hav^' 




44 The lady could not move her bed. It 
must always be in the same relative posi- 
tion to the ventilator and to the rope — for 
so we may call it, since it was clearly never 
meant for a bell-pull." 

44 Holmes," I cried, " I seem to see dimly 
what you are hinting at. We are only just 
in time to prevent some subtle and horrible 

44 Subtle enough, and horrible enough. 
When a doctor does go wrong, he is the 
first of criminals. He has nerve and he 
has knowledge. Palmer and Pritchard 
were among the heads of their profession. 
This man strikes even deeper, but I think, 
Watson, that we shall be able to strike 
deeper still. But we shall have horrors 
enough before the night is over ; for good- 
ness' sake let us have a quiet pipe, and turn 
our minds for a few hours to something 
more cheerful." 

About nine o'clock the light among the 
trees was extinguished, and all was dark in 
the direction of the Manor House. Two 
hours passed slowly away, and then, sud- 
denly, just at the stroke of eleven, a single 
bright light shone out right in front of us. 

14 That is our signal," said Holmes, 
springing to his feet ; " it comes from the 
middle window." 

As we passed out he exchanged a few 
words with the landlord, explaining that we 
were going on a late visit to an acquaint- 
ance, and that it was possible that we 
might spend the night there. A moment 
later we were out on the dark road, a chill 
wind blowing in our faces, and one yellow 
light twinkling in front of us through the 
gloom to guide us on our sombre errand. 

There was little difficulty in entering the 
grounds, for unrepaired breaches gaped in 
the old park wall. Making our way among 
the trees, we reached the lawn, crossed it, 
and were about to enter through the win- 
dow, when out from a clump of laurel 
bushes there darted what seemed to be a 
hideous and distorted child, who threw 
itself upon the grass with writhing limbs, 
and then ran swiftly across the lawn into 
the darkness. 

44 My God ! " I whispered ; " did you see 

Holmes was for the moment as "startled 
as I. His hand closed like a vice upon my 
wrist in his agitation. Then he broke into 
a low laugh, and put his lips to my ear. 

44 It is a nice household/' he murmured. 
44 That is the baboon/* 

Digitized by L^OOgle 

I had forgotten the strange pets which 
the Doctor affected. There was a cheetah, 
too ; perhaps we might find it upon our 
shoulders at any moment. I confess that I 
felt easier in my mind when, after following 
Holmes* example and slipping off my shoes, 
I found myself inside the bedroom. My 
companion noiselessly closed the shutters, 
moved the lamp on to the table, and cast 
his eyes round the room. All was as we 
had seen it in the day-time. Then creep- 
ing up to me and making a trumpet of his 
hand, he whispered into my ear again so 
gently that it was all that I could do to dis- 
tinguish the words. 

44 The least sound would be fatal to our 

I nodded to show that I had heard. 

44 We must sit without light. He would 
see it through the ventilator. 

I nodded again. 

44 Do not go asleep ; your very life may 
depend upon it. Have your pistol ready in 
case we should need it. I will sit on the 
side of the bed, and you in that chair." 

I took out my revolver and laid it on the 
corner of the table. 

Holmes had brought up a long thin cane, 
and this he placed upon the bed beside 
him. By it he laid the box of matches and 
the stump of a candle. Then he turned 
down the lamp, and we were left in dark- 

How shall I ever forget that dreadful 
vigil ? I could not hear a sound, not even 
the drawing of a breath, and yet I knew 
that my companion sat open-eyed, within a 
few feet of me, in the same state of nervous 
tension in which I was myself. The shut- 
ters cut off the least ray of light, and we 
waited in absolute darkness. From outside 
came the occasional cry of a night bird, and 
once at our very window a long drawn, 
cat-like whine, which told us that the 
cheetah was indeed at liberty* Far away 
we could hear the deep tones of the parish 
clock, which boomed out every quarter of 
an hour. How long they seemed, those 
quarters ! Twelve struck, and one, and 
two, and three, and still we sat waiting 
silently for whatever might befall. 

Suddenly there was the momentary 
gleam of a light up in the direction of the 
ventilator, which vanished immediately, 
but was succeeded by a strong smell of 
burning oil and heated metal. Someone 
in the next room had lit a dark lantern. I 
beard a gentle sound of movement, and 
then all was silent once more, though the 





smell grew stronger. For half an hour I 
sat with straining ears. Then suddenly 
another sound became audible — a very 
gentle, soothing sound, like that of a small 
jet of steam escaping continually from a 
kettle. The instant that we heard it. 
Holmes sprang from the bed, struck a 
match, and lashed furiously with his cane 
zt the bell-pull. 

M You see it, Watson ? * he yelled. 
u You see it ? Jt 

But I saw nothing. At the moment 
when Holmes struck the light I heard a low, 
clear whistle, but the sudden glare flashing 
into my weary eyes made it impossible for 
me to tell what it was at which my friend 
lashed so savagely. T could T however, see 
that his face was deadly pale t and filled 
with horror and loathing. 

He had ceased to strike, and was gazing 
up at the ventilator, when suddenly there 
broke from the silence of the night the 
most horrible cry to which I have ever 
listened. It swelled up louder and louder, 
a hoarse yell of pain and fear and anger all 
mingled in the one dreadful shriek. They 
say that away down in the village, and even 
in the distant parsonage, that cry raised the 
sleepers from their beds. It struck cold to 
our hearts, and I stood gazing at Holmes, and 

he at me, until the last echoes of it had 
died away into the silence from which it 

11 What can it mean ? " I gasped. 

11 It means that it is all over, 1 * Holmes 
answered, "And perhaps, after all, it is 
for the best. Take your pistol, and we 
shall enter Dr. Roy lot t '3 room. 1 ' 

With a grave face he lit the lamp, and 
led the way down th? corridor. Twice he 
struck at the chamber door without any 
reply from within. Then he turned the 
handle and entered, I at his heels, with the 
cocked pistol in my hand. 

It was a singular sight which met our 
eyes. On the table stood a dark lantern 
with the shutter half open, throwing a 
brilliant beam of light upon the iron safe, 
the door of which was ajar. Beside this 
table, on the wooden chair, sat Dr. 
Grimesby Roylott, clad in a long grey 
dressing-gown, his bare ankles protruding 
beneath, and his feet thrust into red heel- 
less Turkish slippers. Across his lap lay 
the short stock with the long lash which 
\vc had noticed during the day. His chin 
was cocked upwards, and his eyes were 
fixed in a dreadful rigid stare at the corner 
of the ceiling. Round his brow he had a 
peculiar yellow band, with brownish 




speckles, which seemed to be bound tightly 
round his head. As we entered he made 
neither sound nor motion. 

14 The band ! the speckled band ! ,J whis- 
pered Holmes. 

I took a step forward. In an instant his 
strange headgear began to move, and there 
reared itself from among his hair the squat 
diamond-shaped head and puffed neck of a 
loathsome serpent. 

Dr, Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran. It 
is not necessary that I should prolong a 
narrative which has already run to too great 
a length, by telling how we broke the sad 
news to the terrified girl, how we con- 
veyed her by the morning train to the 
care of her good aunt at Harrow, of how 
the slow process of official inquiry came to 
the conclusion that the Doctor met his fate 
while indiscreetly playing with a dangerous 


u It is a swamp adder ! ,1 cried Holmes — > 
**the deadliest snake in India. He has 
died within ten seconds of being bitten. 
Violence does, in truth, recoil upon the 
violent, and the schemer falls into the pit 
which he digs for another. Let us thrust 
this creature back into its den, and wc can 
then remove Miss S toner to some place of 
shelter, and let the county police know 
what has happened." 

As he spoke he drew the dog whip swiftly 
from the dead man's lap, and throwing the 
noose round the reptile's neck, he drew it 
from its horrid perch t and, carrying it at 
arnVs length threw it into the iron safe, 
which he closed upon it, 

Suth are the true facts of the death of 

' Digitized b/XjOOgle 

pet. The little which I had yet to learn of 
the case was told me by Sherlock Holmes as 
we travelled back next day, 

" I had," said he, "come to an entirely 
erroneous conclusion, which shows, my 
dear Watson, how dangerous it always is 
to reason from insufficient data. The pre- 
sence of the gipsies, and the u^e of the 
word 'band,' which was used by the poor 
girl, no doubt, to explain the appearance 
which she had caught a hurried glimpse of 
by the light of her match, were sufficient 
to put me upon an entirely wrong scent. 
I can only claim the merit that I instantly 
reconsidered my position when, however, it 
became clear to me that whatever danger 
threatened an occupant of the room could 
not corcje either fr*m the window or th& 




door. My- attention was speedily drawn, 
as I have already remarked to you, to this 
ventilator, and to the bell rope which hung 
down to the bed. The discovery that this 
was a dummy, and that the bed was clamped 
to the floor, instantly gave rise to the 
suspicion that the rope was there as a 
bridge for something passing through the 
hole, and coming to the bed. The idea of 
a snake instantly occurred to me, and when 
1 coupled it with my knowledge that the 
Doctor was furnished with a supply of 
creatures from India, I felt that I was pro- 
bably on the right track. The idea of 
using a form of poison which could not 
possibly be discovered by any chemical test 
was just such a one as would occur to a 
clever and ruthless man who had had an 
Eastern training. The rapidity with which 
such a poison would take effect would also, 
from his point of view, be an advantage. It 
would be a sharp-eyed coroner indeed 
who could distinguish the two little dark 
punctures which would show where the 
poison fangs had done their work. Then 
I thought of the whistle. Of course, he 
must recall the snake before the morning 
light revealed it to the victim. He had 
trained it, probably by the use of the milk 
which we saw, to return to him when- sum- 
moned. He would put it through this ven- 
tilator at the hour that he thought best, 
with the certainty that it would crawl down 

the rope, and land on the bed. It might or 
might not bite the occupant, perhaps she 
might escape every night for a week, but 
sooner or later she must fall a victim. 

" I had come to these conclusions before 
ever I had entered his room. An inspection 
of his chair showed me that he had been in 
the habit of standing on it, which, of 
course, would be necessary in order that he 
should reach the ventilator. The sight of 
the safe, the saucer of milk, and the loop 
of whipcord were enough to finally dispel 
any doubts which may have remained. The 
metallic cljmg heard by Miss Stoner was 
obviously caused by her father hastily 
closing the door of his safe upon its terrible 
occupant. Having once made up my mind, 
you know the steps which I took in order 
to put the matter to the proof. I heard the 
creature hiss, as I have no doubt that you 
did also, and I instantly lit ,the light and 
attacked it." 

" With the result of driving it through 
the ventilator." 

" And also with the result of causing it 
to turn upon its master at the other side. 
Sortie of the blows of my cane came home, 
and roused its snakish temper, so that it 
flew upon the first person it saw. In this 
way I am no doubt indirectly responsible 
for Dr. Grimesby Roylott's death, and I 
cannot say that it is likely to weigh very 
heavily upon my conscience." 



Original from 


John Lubbock, Bart 


HE world we live in is a 
fairy land of exquisite beauty ; 
our very existence is a miracle 
in itself ; and yet few of us 
enjoy as we might, and none 
can as yet fully appreciate 
the beauties and wonders which sur- 
round us, 

The greatest traveller cannot hope, even 
in a long life, to v'sit more than a very 
small part of our earth ; and even of that 
which is under our very eyes how little we 
see! What we do see depends mainly on 
what avc ho k for. 

In the same field the fanner will see the 
crop, sportsmen the cover for game, geolo- 
gists the fossils, botanists the flowers, the 
artist the colouring. When we look at 
the sky it is, in most cases, merely to see 
whether it is likely to rain. How slight 
an appreciation of colour most people have 
is shown by the fact that they often talk 
of " stone colour," just as if all stones were 
alike in this respect. "It is good/' says 
Keble, "to have our thoughts lift up lo 
that world where all is beautiful and 
glorious " ; but it is well also to realise how 
beautiful this world is also. 

It has T I know, been maintained— as, for 
instance, by Victor Hugo — that the general 
effect of beauty is to sadden : — " Comme la 
vie de Thomme, memc la plus prospere, 
est toujours au fond plus triste que gaie, le 


ciel sombre nous est harmonieux, Le 
eelatant et joyeux nous est ironique. 
nature triste nous ressemble et nous con- 
sole ; la nature rayonnante, magnifique, 
superbe . , * a quelque chose d'aceablant/ 1 * 

This seems to me, I confess, a morbid 
view. On the other hand, there are f no 
doubt t many on whom the effect of natural 
beauty is to intensify feeling, to deepen 
melancholy, as well as to raise the spirits. 
As Mrs. Greg, in her interesting memoir 
of her husband j tells us : — 

u His passionate love for nature, so 
amply fed by the beauty of the scenes 
around him, intensified the emotions, as all 
keen perception of beauty does, but it did 
not add to their joyousness. We speak of 
the pleasure which nature and art and 
music give u^ ; what we really mean is that 
our whole being is quickened by the uplift- 
ing of the veil. Something passes into us 
which makes our sorrows more sorrowful, 
our joys more joyful, — our whole life more 
vivid. So it was with him. The long, 
solitary wandering* over the hills, and the 
beautiful moonlight nights on the lake, 
served to make the shadows seem darker 
that were brooding over his home/' 

But surely to most of us Nature, when 
sombre or even gloomy, is soothing and 
consoling ; when bright and beautiful, not 

iginarl#roBft«si Vufii" 




only raises the spirits, but inspires and ele- 
vates our whole being. 

Those who love Nature can never be dulL 
They may have other temptations, but at 
least they will run no ri=kof being beguiled 
by tnnrn] idleness, or want of occupation, 



"to buy the merry madness of an 
with the long penitence of after time 
The love of Nature, again, helps us greatly 
to keep ourselves free from those mean and 
petty cares which interfere so much with 
calm and peace of mind ; it turns * ( every 
ordinary walk into a morning or evening 
sacrifice/ 1 and brightens life until it be- 
comes almost like a fairy tale. 

In the romances of the Middle Ages we 
read of knights who loved, and were loved 
by, Nature spirits — of Sir Launfal and the 
Fairy Tryamour, who furnished him with 
many good things, including a magic purse 
in which 

A& oft ag thou puttest thy hand therein, 
A mark of gold thou shall iwinne, 

as well as protection from the main dangers 
of life- Such times have passed away, but 
better ones have come. It is not now 
merely the few who are so favoured. All 
those who love Nature, she loves in return, 
and will richly reward, not perhaps with 
the good things, as they are commonly 
tailed, but with the best things of this 
world ; not with money and titles, horses 
and carriages, but with bright and happy 
thoughts, contentment and peace of mini 

Digitized by dOOgle 

Happy indeed is the Naturalist ; to him 
the seasons come round like old friends, to 
him the birds sing, and as he walks along, 
the flowers stretch out from the hedges and 
look up from the ground, bi Year after 
year, as the flowers die away and the earth 

is once more bare, 
he looks back de- 
lighted on the 
pleasant month-, 
along which he 
has walked hand- 
in-hand with 
Nature ; for he 
feels that his intel- 
ligence has baen 
strengthened, his 
temper sweet- 
ened, his love of 
God increased, by 
fellowship with 
her changes, 
study of her se- 
crets, reverence 
for her works/ 1 

Though we can 
never 4t remount 
the river of our 
years," he who 
loves Nature is 
always young.' 1 
But what is the love of Nature ? Some 
people seem to think they show a love of 
flowers by gathering them, How often one 
finds a bunch of withered blossoms on the 
roadside, plucked only to be thrown away ! 
Is this love of Nature ? It is, on the con 
trary, a wicked waste, for a waste of beauty 
is almost the worst waste of all. 

If we could imagine a day prolonged for 
a lifetime, or nearly so, and that 


and sunset were rare events which hap- 
pened but a few times to each of us, we 
should certainly be entranced by the beauty 
of the morning and evening tints. The 
golden rays of the morning are a fortune 
in themselves ; but we overlook, in fact, the 
loveliness of Nature, because it is constantly 
before us. For £b the senseless folk," says 
King Arthur, i( is far more struck at things 
it seldom sees/' 

Well says Cicero : (l Well did Aristotle 
observe ; If there were men whose habi- 
tations had been always underground, 
in great and commodious houses, adorned 
with statues and pictures, furnished with 
everything which they who are reputed 




happy abound with; and if, without 
stirring from thence, they should be 
informed of a certain Divine power and 
majesty, and, after some time, the earth 
should open, and they should quit their 
dark abode to come to us ; where they 
should immediately behold the earth, the 
seas, the heavens.; should consider the vast 
extent of the clouds and force of the winds ; 
should see the sun, and observe his gran- 
deur and beauty, and also his generative 
power, inasmuch as day is occasioned by 
the diffusion of his light through the sky ; 
and when night has obscured the earth, 
they should contemplate the heavens be- 
spangled and adorned with stars ; the sur- 
prising variety of the moon, in her increase 
and wane ; the rising and setting of all the 
stars, and the inviolable regularity of their 
courses ; when/* says he, " they should see 
these things, they would undoubtedly con- 
clude that there are Gods, and that these 
are their mighty works."* 

We may well ask, with Thoreau — 

44 Is my life vulgar, my fate mean, 
Which on such golden memories can lean ? " 

At the same time the change which has 
taken place in the character of our religion, 
has in one respect weakened the hold which 
nature has upon our feelings. To the 
Greeks — to our own ancestors, every river 
or mountain or forest had not only its own 
deity, but in some sense was itself alive. 
They were not only peopled by nymphs and 
oreads, fauns and hamadryads, were not 
only the favourite abodes of Water, Forest, 
or Mountain spirits, but they had a con- 
scious existence of their own. 

In the Middle Ages, indeed, these spirits 
were regarded as often mischievous, and 
apt to take offence, sometimes essentially 
malevolent — even the most beautiful, like 
the Venus of Tannhailser, being often on 
that very account all the more dangerous ; 
while the mountains and forests, the lakes 
and seas were the abodes of hideous 
ghosts and horrible monsters, of giants and 
ogres, sorcerers and demons. These fears, 
though vague, were none the less extreme, 
and the judicial records of the Middle 
Ages furnish only too conclusive evidence 
that they were indeed a terrible reality. 

The light of science has now happily dis- 
pelled these fearful nightmares. Unfor- 
tunately, however, as men have multiplied, 
their energies have hitherto tended not to 
beautify, but to mar. Forests have been 

* Cicero, De Natura Deorum. 

by L^OOgle 

cut down, and replaced by flat fields in 
geometrical squares, or on the Continent in 
narrow strips. 

Here and there, indeed, we meet with 
cases in which beauty has not been sacri- 
ficed to wealth ; and, happily, it is found 
that not only is there no incompatibility, 
but the earth seems to reward even more 
richly those who have treated her with love 
and respect. 

Scarcely any part of the world affords 
such a variety in so small an area as our 
own island. Commencing in the south, 
we have first the blue sea itself, the pebbly 
beaches and white chalk cliffs of Kent, 
the painted sands of Alum Bay, the red 
sandstone of Devonshire, granite and 
gneiss in Cornwall. In the south-east, 
again, we have the chalk downs and the 
well- wooded weald, and the rich hop 
gardens ; further westwards the undulating 
gravelly hills, and, still further, the granite 
tors. In the centre of England we have, to 
the east, the Norfolk Broads and the Fens : 
then the fertile Midlands, the cornfields, 
rich meadows, and large oxen ; and, to the 
west, the Welsh mountains. Further north, 
the Yorkshire Wolds, the Lancashire 
hills, the lakes of Westmoreland ; lastly, 
the swelling hills and bleak moors, the 
trap dykes, and picturesque castles of 
Northumberland and Cumberland. 

Scotland is considered by many even 
more beautiful. 

Every month, again, has its own charms 
and beauty, and yet too many of us see 
nothing in the fields but sacks of wheat, in 
the meadows but trusses of hay, and in 
woods but planks for houses or cover for 
game. Even from this more prosaic point 
of view, how much there is to wonder at 
and admire in the wonderful chemistry 
which changes grass and leaves, flowers and 
seeds, into bread and milk, eggs and cream, 
butter and honey. 

44 Almost everything/' says Hamerton, 
"that the peasant does, is lifted above 
vulgarity by ancient, and often sacred, 
associations. w There is, indeed, hardly any 
business or occupation with reference to 
which the same might not be said. The 
triviality or vulgarity does not depend on 
what we do, but on the spirit in which it is 
done. Not only the regular professions, but 
every useful occupation in life, however 
humble, is honourable in itself, and may be 
pursued with dignity and peace. 

Working in this spirit we have also the 
satisfaction of feeling that, as in some 




mountain track, every one who takes the 
right path seems to make the way clearer 
for those who follow ; so may we also 
raise the profession we adopt, and smooth 
the way for those who come after us. 
Even for those who are not agriculturists, it 
must be admitted that the country has 
special charms. One, perhaps, is the con- 
tinual change. Every week brings some 
fresh leaf or flower, bird or insect. We sit 
quietly at home and Nature decks herself 
for us. 

In truth we all love change. Some think 
they do not care for it, but I doubt if they 
know themselves, 

14 Not/' said JefTeries, "for many years 
was I able to see 
why I went the 
same round and 
did not care for 
change I do not 
want change ; I 
want the same 
old and loved 
things, the same 
wild flowers, the 
same trees and 
soft ash - green ; 
the turtle-doves, 
the blackbirds, 
the coloured yel- 
low-hammer sing, 
sing, singing so 
long as there is 
light to cast a 
shadow on the 
dial, for such is 
the measure of 
his song, and I 
want them in the 
same place, Let 
me find them 
morning after 
morning, the 
starry- white 
petals radiating, 
striving upwards 
up to their ideal. 
Let me see the 
idle shadows rest- 
ing on the white dust ; let me hear the 
humble-bees, and stay to look down on the 
yellow dandelion disk. Let me see the 
very thistles opening their great crowns — I 
should miss the thistles ; the reed grasses 
hiding the moor-hen ; the bryony bine, at 
first crudely ambitious and lifted by force 
of youthful sap straight above the hedge- 
row, to sink tf its weight presently, and 

progress with crafty tendrils ; swifts shot 
through the air with outstretched wings 
like crescent-headed, shallless arrows darted 
from the clouds ; the chaffinch, with a 
feather in her bill ; all the living staircase 
of the spring, step by step, upwards to the 
great gallery of the summer, let me watch 
the same succession year by year/' 

After all, then, he did enjoy the change 
and the succession. 

Kingsley, again, in his charming prose 
idyll, u My Winter Garden/ 1 tries to per- 
suade himself that he was glad he had 
never travelled, "having never yet actually 
got to Park" "Monotony," he says, "is 
pleasant in itself ; morally pleasant, and 

morally useful. 
Marriage is mo- 
notonous, but 
there is much, I 
trust, to be said 
in favour of holy 
wedlock. Living 
in the same house 
is monotonous ; 
but three re- 




wise, are as bad 
as a fire- Loco- 
motion is re- 
garded as an evil 
by our Litany, 
The Litany, as 
usual, is right. 
'Those who tra- 
vel by land or 
sea ' are to be 
objects of our 
pity and our 
prayers f and I do 
pity them. I de- 
light in that same 
monotony. It 
saves curiosity, 
anxiety, excite- 
ment, disappoint- 
ment, and a ho^t 
of bad passions." 
But even as he 
writes one can see 
that he does not convince himself. Possibly, 
he admits, u after all, the grapes are sour ; f} 
and when some years later he did travel, 
how happy he was ! At last, he -says, 
tiiumphantly, u at last we, too, are crossing 
the Atlantic* At last the dream of forty 
years, please God, would be fulfilled, and I 
should see (and happily not alone) the 
West Indie? and the Spanish Main. From 




chiidhood I haa studied their natural history, 
their charts, their romances ; and now, at 
last, I was about to compare books with 
facts, and judge for myself of the reported 
wonders of the earthly paradise. 11 ' 

No doubt there is much to see every- 
where- The poet and the naturalist will 
tind " tropical forests in every square foot 
of turf." It may even be better, and 
especially for the most sensitive natures, to 
live mostly in quiet scenery, among fields 
and hedgerows, woods and downs ; but it 
is surely good for everyone, from time to 
time, to refresh and strengthen both 
body slid mind by a spell of sea air or 
mountain scenery. 

On the other hand we are told, and 
told of course with truth, that though 
mountains may be the cathedrals of 
Nature, they arc especially remote from 
centres of population ; that out great 
cities are grimy, dark, and ugly ; that 
manufactures are creeping over several 
of our counties, blighting them into 
building ground, replacing trees by 
chimneys, and destroying every vestige 
of natural beauty. 

But if this be true, is it not all the 
more desirable that our people should 
have access to pictures and books, which 
may in some small degree, at any rate, 
replace what they have thus unfortun- 
ately lost. Another reason why books 
may help us is because we cannot all 
travel ; and even those who can, are 
able after all to see but a small part of 
the world. Moreover, though no one 
who has once seen them can ever forget 
the Alps, the Swiss Lakes, or the Riviera, 
still the recollection becomes less vivid 
as years roll on, and it is pleasant, from 
time to time, to be reminded of their 
beauties. There is one other advantage 
not less important- We sometimes 
speak as if to visit a country and to see 
it were the same thing. But this is 
not so- It is not everyone who can see 
Switzerland like Ruskin or TyndalL 
Their beautiful description of mountain 
scenery depends less on their mastery of 
the English language, great as that is, 
than on their power of seeing what is before 

It has then been to me a matter of much 
interest to see which aspects of Nature have 
given the greatest pleasure, or have most 
impressed those who, either from wide ex- 
perience, or from their love of Nature, may 
be considered best able to judge. 

Digitized by l^OOgle 

Humboldt tells us* that— " If I might be 
allowed to abandon myself to the recollection 
of my own distant travels, I would instance, 
amongst the most striking scenes of Nature, 
the calm sublimity of a tropical night, 
when the stars, not sparkling, as in our 
northern skies, shed their soft and plane- 
tary light over the gently heaving ocean ; 
or I would recall the deep valleys of the 
Cordilleras, where the tall and slender 
palms pierce the leafy veil around them, 
and waving on high their feathery and 
arrow-like branches, form, as it were, ' a 


forest above a forest ' ; or I would describe 
the summit of the Peak of Teneriffe, when 
a horizon layer of clouds, dazzling in white* 
ness, has separated the cone of cinders from 
the plain below, and suddenly the ascending 
current pierces the cloudy veil, so that the 

* B v* en bo Id* 1 s ' ' Cosmo s. ' " 




eye of the traveller may range from the 
brink of the crater, along the vine-clad 
slopes of Orotava, to the orange gardens 
and banana groves that skirt the shore. In 
scenes like these, it is not the peaceful 
charm uniformly spread over the face of 
Nature that moves the heart, but rather the 
peculiar physiognomy and conformation of 
the land, the features qf the landscape, the 
ever varying outline of the clouds, and 
their blending with the horizon of the sea, 
whether it lies spread before us like a 
smooth and shining mirror, or is dimly 
seen through the morning mist. All that 
the senses can but imperfectly comprehend, 
all that is most awful in such romantic 
scenes of Nature may become a source of 
enjoyment to man, by opening a wide field 
to the creative power of his imagination. 
Impressions change with the varying move- 
ments of the mind, and we are led by a 
happy illusion to believe that we receive 
from the external world that with which 
we have ourselves invested it." 

Humboldt also singles out for especial 
praise the following description given of 
Tahiti by Darwin :* — 

" The land capable of cultivation is 
scarcely in any part more than a fringe of 
low alluvial soil, accumulated round the 
base of mountains, and protected from the 
waves of the sea by a coral reef, which 
encircles at a distance the entire line of 
coast. The reef is broken in several parts, 
so that ships can pass through, and the 
lake of smooth water within thus affords a 
safe harbour as well as a channel for the 
native canoes. The low land, which comes 
down to the beach of coral sand, is covered 
by the most beautiful productions of the 
intertropical regions. In the midst of 
bananas, orange, cocoanut, and bread-fruit 
trees, spots are cleared, where yams, sweet 
potatoes, sugar-cane, and pine-apples are 
cultivated. Even the brushwood is a fruit- 
tree, namely, the guava, which from its 
abundance is as noxious as a weed. In 
Brazil I have often admired the contrast of 
varied beauty in the banana, palm, and 
orange tree ; here we have in addition the 
bread-fruit tree, conspicuous from its large, 
glossy, and deeply ^digitated leaf. It is 
admirable to behold groves of a tree, send- 
ing forth its branches with the force cf an 
English oak, loaded with large and most 
nutritious fruit. However little on most 
occasions utility explains the delight re- 

ceived from any fine prospect, in this case 
it cannot fail to enter as an element in the 
feeling. The little winding paths, cool 
from the surrounding shade, led to the 
scattered houses ; and the owners of these 
everywhere gave us a cheerful and most 
hospitable reception." 

Darwin himself has told us, after going 
round the world, that " In calling up images 
of the past, I find the plains of Patagonia 
frequently cross before my eyes ; yet these 
plains are pronounced by all to be most 
wretched and useless. They are characterised 
only by negative possessions ; without habi- 
tations, without water, without trees, with- 
out mountains, they support only a few 
dwarf plants. Why then — and the case is 
not peculiar to myself — have these arid 
wastes taken so firm possession of my mind ? 
Why have not the still more level, the 
greener and more fertile pampas, which are 
serviceable to mankind, produced an equal 
impression ? I can scarcely analyse these 
feelings, but it must be partly owing to the 
free scope given to the imagination. The 
plains of Patagonia are boundless, for they 
are scarcely practicable, and hence unknown ; 
they bear the stamp of having thus lasted 
for ages, and there appears no limit to their 
duration through future time. If, as the 
ancients supposed, the flat earth was sur- 
rounded by an impassable breadth of water, 
or by deserts heated to an intolerable excess, 
who would not look at these last boundaries 
to man's knowledge with deep but ill-defined 
sensations ? " 

Hamerton, whose wide experience and 
artistic power make his opinion especially 
important, says: — 

14 1 know nothing in the visible world 
that combines splendour and purity so per- 
fectly as a great mountain entirely covered 
with frozen snow, and reflected in the vast 
mirror of a lake. As the sun declines its 
thousand shadows lengthen, pure as the 
cold green-azure in the depth of a glacier's 
crevasse, and the illuminated snow takes 
first the tender colour of a white rose, and 
then the flush of a red one, and the sky 
turn \ to a pale malachite green till the rare, 
strange vision fades into ghastly grey, but 
leaves with you a permanent recollection 
of its too transient beauty "* 

Wallace especially and very justly praises 
the following description of tropical forest 
scenery given by Belt in his charming 
" Naturalist in Nicaragua " : — 

Darwin's "Voyage qf the Beagle." 

Digitized by VjOO*J 




* Hamertcn's ' 

V-M 1 q 1 n d 1 irt 



u On each side of the road great trees 
towered up, carrying their crowns out of 
sight amongst a canopy of foliage, and 
with lianas hanging from nearly every 
bough , and passing from tree to tree, en- 
tangling the giants in a great network of 
coiling cables. Sometimes a tree appears 
covered with beautiful flowers which do not 
belong to it, but to one of the lianas that 
twines through its branches and sends down 
great rope-like stems to the ground. Climb- 
ing ferns and vanilla cling to the trunks, 

conias, leathery mdastomse, and succulent- 
stemmed, Lop-sided leaved and fresh- 
coloured begonias are abundant, and typical 
of tropical American forests ; but not less 
so are the cecropia trees, with their white 
stems and large pal ma ted leaves standing 
up like great candelabra. Sometimes the 
ground is carpeted with large flowers, 
yellow, pink, or white, that have fallen 
from some invisible tree-top above ; or the 
air is filled with a delicious perfume, the 
source of which one seeks around in vain. 


and a thousand epiphytes perch themselves 
on the branches. Amongst these are large 
arums that send down long serial roots, 
tough and strong, and universally used 
instead of cordage by the natives. Amongst 
the undergrowth several small species of 
palms, varying in height from two to 
fifteen feet, are common ; and now and 
then magnificent tree ferns send off their 
feathery crowns, twenty feet from the 
ground, to delight the sight by their 
graceful elegance. Great broad- leaved heli- 

Digitized by Oi 

for ihe flowers that cause it are far overhead 
out of sight, lost in the great overshadowing 
crown of verdure," :; 

14 But/' he adds, *' the uniformity of 
climate which has led to this rich luxuri- 
ance and endless variety of vegetation is 
also the cause of a monotony that in time 
becomes oppressive," To quote the words 
of Mr. Belt : — H Unknown are the autumn 
tints the bright browns and yellows of 

* W*Uk€ ? » " Tropical Nature." 

Original from 



English woods : much less the crimsons, 
purples, and yellows of Canada, where 
the dying foliage rivals, nay, excels, 
the expiring dolphin in splendour. 
Unknown the cold sleep of winter ; un- 
known the lovely awakening of vegetation 
at the first gentle touch of spring. A 
ceaseless round of ever-active life weaves 
the fairest scenery of the tropics into one 
monotonous whole, of which the compo- 
nent parts exhibit in detail untold variety 
of beauty." 

Siberia is, no doubt, as a rule, somewhat 
severe and inhospitable, but M. Patrin 
mentions with enthusiasm how one day, 
descending from the frozen summits of the 
Altai, he came suddenly on a view of the 
plain of the Obi — the most beautiful spec- 
tacle, he says, which he had ever witnessed. 
Behind him were barren rocks and the 
snows of winter, in front a great plain — not 
entirely green, but only green in places, 
and for the rest covered by three flowers — 
the purple Siberian Iris, the golden Heme- 
rocallis, and the silvery Narcissus — all 
gold and purple and white, as far as the 
eye could reach. 

Wallace tells us that he himself has 
derived the keenest enjoyment from his 
sense of colour : — 

44 The heavenly blue of the firmament, the 
glowing tints of sunset, the exquisite purity 
of the snowy mountains, and the endless 
shades of green presented by the verdure- 
clad surface of the earth, are a never- 
failing source of pleasure to all who enjoy 
the inestimable gift of sight. Yet these 
constitute, as it were, but the frame and 
background of a marvellous and ever- 
changing picture. In contrast with these 
broad and soothing tints, we have presented 
to us in the vegetable and animal worlds 
an infinite variety of objects adorned with 
the most beautiful and most varied hues. 
Flowers, insects, and birds, are the organ- 
isms most generally ornamented in this 
way ; and their symmetry of form, their 
variety of structure, and the lavish abun- 
dance with which they clothe and enliven 
the earth, cause them to be objects of 
universal admiration. The relation of this 
wealth of colour to our mental and moral 
nature is indisputable. The child and the 
savage alike admire the gay tints of flowers, 
birds, and insects ; while to the many of 
us their contemplation brings a solace and 
enjoyment which is both intellectually and 
morally beneficial. It can then hardly 
excite surprise that this relation was long 

Digiiiz&d by LrOOglC 

thought to afford a sufficient explanation of 
the phenomena of colour in nature, and 
although the fact that — 

* Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air,' 

might seem to throw some doubt on the 
sufficiency of the explanation, the answer 
was easy — that in the progress of discovery, 
man would, sooner or later, find out and 
enjoy every beauty that the hidden recesses 
of the earth have in store for him." 

Professor Colvin speaks with special 
admiration of Greek scenery : — 

"In other climates, it is only in particular 
states of the weather that the remote ever 
seems so close, and then with an effect 
which is sharp and hard as well as clear ; 
here the clearness is soft, nothing cuts or 
glitters, seen through that magic distance ; 
the air has not only a new transparency so 
that you can see further into it than else- 
where, but a new quality, like some crystal 
of an unknown water, so that to see into it 
is greater glory/ ' Speaking of the ranges 
and promontories of sterile limestone, the 
same writer observes that the colours of 
them are as austere and delicate as the 
forms. "If here the scar of some old quarry 
throws a stain, or there the clinging of some 
thin leafage spreads a bloom, the stain is of 
precious gold, and the bloom of silver. 
Between the blue of the sky and the ten- 
fold blue of the sea, these bare ranges seem, 
beneath that daylight, to present a whole 
system of noble colour flung abroad over 
perfect forms. And wherever, in the 
general sterility, you find a little moderate 
verdure, a little moist grass, a cluster of 
cypresses — or whenever your eye lights 
upon the one wood of the district, the long 
olive grove of the Cephissus, you are struck 
with a sudden sense of richness, and feel as 
if the splendours of the tropics would be 
nothing to this." 

Though Jefferies was unfortunately ne^er 
able to travel, few men have loved Nature 
more devotedly ; and he tells us that : " Of 
all sweet things there is none so sweet as 
sweet air— one great flower it is, drawn 
round about, over, and enclosing us, like 
Aphrodite's arms, as if the dome of the 
sky were a bell-flower drooping down over 
us, and the magical essence of it filling all 
the room of the earth. Sweetest of all 
things is wild-flower air. Full of their 
ideal the starry flowers strained upwards on 
the bank, striving to keep above the rude 
grasses that push by them ; genius has ever 
had such a struggle. The plain road was 




d'oiseaux, qui se caressaient dans leur nids t 
rejouis par la clart£ de la nuit et la tran- 
quillity de I'air. Tons, jusqu'aux insectes, 
bruissaient sous Therbe. Les ^toiles ctincel- 
aient au ciel, et se reflechissaient au sein de 
la mei\ qui repetait leurs images trem- 

In the Arctic and Antarctic regions the 
nights are often made quite gorgeous by 
the Northern Lights, or Aurora Borealis, 
and the corresponding appearance in the 
Southern Hemisphere* The Aurora Borealis 
generally begins towards evening, and first 
appears as a faint glimmer in the north, 
like the approach of dawn. Gradually a 


made beautiful by the many thoughts it 
save. I came every morning to stay by 
the star-lit bank/ 1 

Most travellers have been fascinated by 
the beauty of night in the tropics. Our 
evenings no doubt are often delicious also, 
though the mild climate we enjoy is partly 
due to the sky being so often overcast. In 
parts of the' tropics however, the air is 
calm and cloudless throughout nearly the 
whole of the year* There is no dew, and 
the inhabitants sleep on the house-tops, in 
full view of the brightness of the stars, and 
the beauty of the sky, which is almost in- 

" II faisait," says Bernardin de St. Pierre 
of such a scene, Li une de ces nuits delici- 
euses, si communes entre les tropiques, et 
dont le plus habile pinceau ne rendrait pas la 
beauts. La lune paraissait au milieu du 
firmament, entour6e d'un rideau de nuages, 
que ses rayons dissipaient par degres, Sa 
lumifere se repandait insensiblement sur les 
montagnes de Tile et sur leurs pitons, qui 
brillait d'uu vert argente. Les vents 
retenaicnt leurs haleines, On entendait 
Jans les bois, au fond des valines, au haut 
des rocher^de petits cris. de doux murmures 


curve of light spreads like an immense 
arch of yellowish white hue, which gains 
rapidly in brilliancy, flashes and vibrates 
like a flame in the wind. Often two or 
even three arches appear one over the 
other, After a while coloured rays flash 
upwards in divergent pencils, green below, 
yellow in the centre, and crimson above ; 
while it i,> said that sometimes black or 
dark violet rays are interspersed among the 
rings of light, and heighten their effect by 
contrast, Sometimes the two ends of the 
arch seem to rise off the horizon, and the 
whole sheet of light throbs and undulates 
like an immense fringed curtain of light ; 
sometimes the sheaves of rays unite into 
a gigantic cupola ; while at others the 
separate rays seem alternately lit and ex- 
tinguished. Gradually the light flickers 
and fades away, and has generally dis- 
appeared before the first glimpse of dawn* 

The Southern Aurora is very similar, 
though said to be somewhat bluer and 
paler than that of the North, 

We seldom see the Aurora in the south 
of England, but we must not complain ; 
our winters are mild, and every month has 
its own charm and beauty. 





In January we have the lengthening cir.ys. 

In February, the first butterfly. 

In March, the opening buds. 

In April, the young leaves and spring 

In May, the song of the birds. 

In June, the sweet, new-mown hay. 

In July, the golden grain. 

In August, the ripening harvest. 

In September , the fruit. 

In October, the autumn tints. 

In November, the hoar frost on trees and 
the pure snow. 

In December, last, not least, the holidays 
of Christmas and the bright fireside. 

Spring seems to revive us all. In the 
Song of Solomon — 

44 My beloved spoke, and said unio me, 
Rise up, my love, my fair one T and come away I 
For lo ! the winter is past T 
The rain is over and gone ; 
The flowers appear on the earth ; 
The time of the singing of birds is come, 
The voice of the turtle is heard in our land, 
And the vines with the tender grape give a good 

It is well to begin the year in January, 
for we have then 
before us all the 
hope of spring* 

"Oh, wind! 
If winter comes, can 
spring be far be- 
hind ? " * 

u But indeed there 
are days/' says 
Emerson, "which 
occur in this climate 
at almost any season 
of the year, wherein 
the world reaches its 
perfection, when the 
air, the heavenly 
bodies, and the 
earth, make a har- 
mony, as if Nature 
would indulge her 

offspring " These halcyons may be 

looked for with a little more assurance in 
that pure October weather, which we dis- 
tinguish by the name of the Indian sum- 
mer. The day, immeasurably long, sleeps 
over the broad hills and warm, wide fields. 
To have lived through all its sunny hours 
seems longevity enough. Yet does not" the 
very name of Indian summer imply the 
superiority of the summer itself— the real, 
the true Summer, when the young corn is 

bursting into ear, the awned heads of rye, 
wheat, and barley, and the nodding pani- 
cles of oats, shoot from their green and 
glaucous -terns in broad, level, and waving 
expanses of present beauty and future pro- 
mise ? The very waters are strewn with 
flowers ; the buck-bean, the water- violet, 
the elegant flowering rush, and the queen 
of the waters, the pure and splendid white 
lily, invest every stream and lonely mere 
with grace."* 

For our greater power of perceiving, and 
therefore of enjoying Nature, we are greatly 
indebted to science. Over and above what 
is visible to the unaided eye, the two magic 
tubes, the telescope and microscope* have 
revealed to us, at least partially, the infi- 
nitely great and the infinitely little. 

I believe also that Science, our fairy god- 
mother, will, unless we perversely reject 
her help and refuse her gifts, so richly en- 
dow us, that fewer hours of labour will 
serve to supply us with the material neces- 
saries of life, leaving us more time to our- 
selves, more leisure to enjoy all that makes 
life best worth living. 

J* ____ 



" If any one," says Seneca, " gave you a 
few acres, you would say that you had re- 
ceived a benefit ; can you deny that the 
boundless extent of the earth is a benefit ? 
If a house were given you, bright with 
marble, its roof beautifully painted with 
colours and gilding, you would call it no 
small benefit. God has built for you a 
mansion that fears no fire or ruin . 
covered with a roof which glitters in one 
fashion by day, and in another by night/' t 
* Howitt*<i ,l Bock of the Seasons " 


Portraits of Celebrities at different times of their Lives. 

4t D. Dou/niff, 

AGE B H [ W tt P. Vote**}/. 

JVtHn a />Aaft>. **] 

[W.&D< Itowv. 


t'rujii u Photo. ty<i 

AGE T7. 

[ FT. £ R Dctcn^ 

^Vom a ftoto. ty] 

AliE 74 


]UE present is a particularly 
appropriate moment to present 

SgJ our readers with the portraits of 
gfjj the Princess Victoria of Teck at 

tP#*trmttt 9/ tki &uh of Clarv*t€ t 

different ages, when the heartfelt sympathy 
of all the world has been with her in the 
recent sad bereavement which, on the 
eve of her marriage, it has been her lot to 




.'?-v" 1 

frpm A f*fco£o] 

.\'"'i: jUk 

[ly ;r r titii.rji, 

Born 1831. 

& YATES, who is the son of the 
S well -known act or , was for many 
g years Chief of the Missing Letter 
Department in the Post Office, 
and while in that position wrote several well- 
known novels, of which lfc Black Sheep ,T 
and '* The Yellow Flag " have, perhaps T been 




the most popular. Mr. Yates, who had 
himself written successfully for the stage, 
was for six years the theatrical critic of 
The Daily News. He retired from the 

Fran* a. tutt^ii tig try] 

AGE 48. 

[W. W. Oute*i t lt.A, 

Post Office in 1872, in order to devote 
himself entirely to literary work, and 
during the same year went on a lecturing 
tour in the United States. Two years 
later he established The World, a paper 
which, at the time of its appearance, 
marked a new departure in journalism, and 
which continues successfully to hold its 
own against a host of younger rivals. A 
full account of his career appeared in 1884 
in his extremely entertaining "Personal 
Reminiscences, ' T 


From a rfurio.] 

age Go. 

Original from 

[bg JSurratuI 



Ff<m a Pitta. l»] age 40. [C. WatHtu. 



Born 1831. 

who has been spoken of as one 
of the most voluminous writers 
of the day, was born at West- 
minster, and his first short 
stories appeared in Once a Week. These 
were followed by others in All the Year 
Round } Chambers^ Journal and by a con- 
siderable number of graphic working-class 
sketches in The Evening Star y under the 
comprehensive title of " Readings by Star- 
light.' f His pen soon began to take longer 
flights, and some twenty-five three-volume 

From a Photo 6yJ 

and fifty one-volume novels have appeared 
with more or less success, this author's 
works being even more widely read in 
Australia and the United States than in 
England. Among the best known works 
may be mentioned " The Parson o f Dum- 
ford," " This Man's Wife," and " The New 
Mistress." During the past ten years Mr. 
Fenn has devoted no little time to the pro- 
duction of boys' stories. These have been 
very popular, and have made for him a 
wide and ever -increasing circle of readers. 
As Mr. Fenn's works show, he is a great 
lover of out-door life and natural history, 
beside devoting a good deal of time to 
experimental gardening. 

Original from 







^W" M 

Pram, a] 

AGE 3& 



Bokx 1 831. 


FORT-LU^AY, known under 
the name of Henri Rochefort, 
is a celebrated French writer 
and politician, born in Paris, 
July 30, 1 831. He is descended from an 
old and distinguished family, one of his 
ancestors having been Chancellor of France. 
M. Rochefort at an early period adopted 
the profession of journalist, to which he 
has adhered throughout his stormy and 
chequered career. After writing for various 

From a Photo, hf} AGS 37. 


publications, and manifesting a determined 
and indomitable spirit of independence, M. 
Rochefort founded^ on his own account, the 

famous weekly pamphlet called La Lan- 
ier m\ the first issue of which appeared 
June 1, 1868, and produced a tremendous 
sensation in France. The writer was 
speedily compelled to leave France to avoid 
the imprisonment to which he was sen- 
tenced by the tribunals of the Empire. 
Since the fall of Napoleon III. and the 
establishment of the Republic in France, 
M. Rochefort' s career has been one of con- 
tinual agitation. Implicated in the events 
of the Paris Commune, he was condemned 

From* FAfltat*] 

AGE 60, 


by ^OOgle 

to transportation to the French penal 
colony of New Caledonia, whence he made 
his escape ten months afterwards, in March, 
1874, on bor.rd an English barque, which 
landed him safely in Australia, whence he 
made his way to London, Subsequently 
armisticed, he returned to Paris in 1880, 
where he founded Vlntransigcant the 
same year. Again obliged to take refuge 
abroad after the Boulangist trials of i88q, 
M. Rochefort returned to London, where 
he has since continued to reside. 




f'r\itti ti l*hoto tt\i\ 

KV.wtt d Fry 


}HE greatest of English pianists 
was born at Sl Servan, in Brit- 
tany, 1836. At four years old 
she played at a charitable con 
cert in that town, having to 
stand on an improvised board, being too 
diminutive to play from an ordinary seat. 
After studying under Kalkbrcnncr in Parts 
and Thalbergj she appeared at the national 
concerts in London when fourteen, fairly 
astonishing the musical world by her 
extraordinary technical gifts, her exquisite 
refinement, and a delicacy of phrasing 
which in later years constituted her one of 
the most remarkable pianists of the time, 

>Vti*ii a J'Auto. by] F' RE SENT 

lLanl*wtrr i Tunbridyt W'ttU 

by Google 

When the Monday Popular Concerts were 
founded in 1853, Madame Goddard was the 
particular attraction, and to her much of 
their subsequent success may be ascribed. 
All the later pianoforte sonatas of Beethoven, 
hitherto unfamiliar, were introduced by 
her, and numberless other works of classical 
importance, both at the Popular concerts 
and at her Recitals, doubtless advancing 
musical art in this country by fully twenty 
years. Since her tour round the world, 
from 1873 to 1876, she has retired from 
public playing ; but, happily, her valuable 
advice as a teacher is a thing of the pre- 
sent, Madame Goddard resides at Tun- 
bridge Wells. 

Original from 






Born 1848. 

ATTHEW WEBB, whose great 
feats of swimming and untimely 
fate are still fresh in mind, was 
the son of a surgeon, and was 

From a Phot* tf] AGE 15. [ff, IF. Fait, Troatridu*, 

born at Dawley, At twelve he was 
already a fine swimmer, and at fifteen, 
when on the Conway training ship, he had 
saved two lives from drowning. Our third 
portrait was taken just after his great swim 
from Dover to Calais, and our last portrait 
represents him just before his fatal attempt 
to swim the rapids of Niagara, which took 
place on July 24, 1883. 


AGE I?. 

[Photograph* From a I'hbkt. ftp] .AGE Ji* 

Original from 

by Google 

[Elliott ^ *>lf . 



From a] 

AfTE i6. 


that the Society increased rapidly in im- 
portance, and the present fine building in 
Piccadilly was erected. He became Presi- 
dent in 1884, and one year later — at the 

from a Pilot*.] 

ACE 45. 

[>V W ofay. 

age at which our third portrait represents 
him — he received the honour of knight- 
hood. Sir James Linton's work is remark- 
able for its excellent draughtsmanship and 
for its richness and depth of colouring. His 
'■ Marriage of the Duke of Albany," painted 

Aom a FAQt&> fry] AflE 34. IRuKland Taylor* 


Born 1840. 

4?!^ TON, President of the Royal 
\^^ Institute of Painters in Water 

jggg^ Colours, was educated as a de- 
signer for stained glass* and was 
later engaged as a draughtsman for lite 
Graphic ; but it was in water -colouy that 
he was destined to display the full^xtent 
of his ability* At twenty-seven Re was 
elected a member of the Institute, not at 
that time in a very flourishing condition, 
and it is largely owing to his enterprise 

Dig :)yG* 

Frvm u i'AaW.] 


by command of the Queen, is one of the 

most successful subjects of the kind ever 

represented. . . r 
r Original from 



The Princes Crime. 

By J. E. Muddock, F.R.G.S. 

N the banks of the Orsing 
River, which flows through 
Oodeypor, and finds its way 
into the Gulf of Cambay in 
the Arabian Sea, stands the 
old and magnificent palace of 
the Rajas of Chota. The present Raja, 
Jit Singh, the Chowan, or ruler, is the 
seventeenth in direct line from Peilab 
Singh, who long ago was the terror of his 
country, for the only law he recognised was 
the law of the sword. Jit Singh possesses 
many of the qualities of his famous ancestor, 
and, though an independent Prince, and 
known as " The Lion of Victories,' J he is 
tributary to his more powerful neighbour 
of Baroda. The palace of Jit Singh is noted 
for its magnificence. Some of the apart- 
ments are decorated with barbaric splendour. 
In the " Mirror Room " the ceiling is inlaid 
with real gold and jewels, while the walls 
are lined with mirrors of burnished silver. 
In the feudal times the Palace was often 
besieged ; and often, too, there went forth 
from its grim precincts the Chowan with a 
powerful following to make war on some 
neighbouring State. There is a current 
tradition in connection with the House of 
Chota that a former Raja had a daughter 
of entrancing beauty whose hand was sought 
by two powerful princes. As the Raja did 
not wish to offend either of them, he bade 
them fight for the Princess. One was slain, 
and, when the survivor claimed the hand of 
the beauteous maiden, her father, being 
afraid of giving deadly offence to the rela- 
tives of the slain prince, put his daughter 
to death. This Spartan-like spirit has ever 
been conspicuous in the descendants of the 
redoubtable Peilab Singh, and it displayed 
itself a few years ago in Chundra Singh, the 
second son of the present ruler, whose sub- 
jects number between seventy and eighty 

Some years ago Chundra Singh married 
a lady who was considerably his senior, and 

Digitized by CjQOgJC 

she resided in his zenana in part of the old 
palace. Three years later Chundra fell in 
love with the Princess Rajkooverbai, who 
was the only sister of apowerful noble in a 
neighbouring State. Tne Princess was but 
fifteen years old, but the fame of her beauty 
had spread throughout almost the whole of 
India. Her family had ever been noted for 
the courage of its men, and the beauty of 
its women ; and in Rajkooverbai beauty 
and courage were blended, so that high- 
born Hindoos from far and wide sought 
— her hand. But Chundra's suit found 
favour with her brother, and he con- 
sented to the Princess allying herself 
with the powerful house of the Chota 
Rajas ; for, though Chundra was the 
second son, there were probabilities that 
one day he would rule. But, whether or 
no, an alliance with such a family was not 
to be despised. So the wedding was cele- 
brated with all the regal pomp and mag- 
nificence which mark Indian marriages in 
high life. 

The name of Chundra's first wife was 
Naudba, and when her girlish rival, whose 
dazzling beauty so eclipsed her own, was 
brought to the zenana, she displayed a 
fierce hatred for her from the very first 
meeting. For some time poor little Raj- 
kooverbai tried to propitiate the haughty 
Naudba, but without success, and the 
girl's life was made a burden to her. So 
unhappy did she become that her husband 
at last gave her private apartments in his 
palace, and here, with a few attendants, she 
led a lonely life, though it was preferable to 
the misery and wretchedness she had en- 
dured at the hands of Naudba. 

It chanced, unhappily for the Princess, 
that amongst her husband's retainers was a 
handsome youth, a young Beluchi, whose 
name was Saadut. He was the son of a 
soldier, who was also in the Prince's service, 
and he had the reputation of being a 
musician smd a poet, He ha ! d received an 


] 7 6 


education superior to most youths in his 
station of life ; ( &nd, being of a studious arid 
observant nature, he had already made 
himself conspicuous for his knowledge. The 
result was he became a general favourite in 
the Palace, and his master allowed him many 
privileges. More- 
over, being of an 
amorous di sposi Hon, 
he penned love-son- 
nets for his compan- 
ions ; and, as he was 
able to play the cithar 
well, he set his son- 
nets to music, and 
sang them during 
the languid Indian 
nights, when, the 
labours of the day 
being over, the re- 
tainers were free to 
enjoy themselves 
after their bent. 

Saadut's accom- 
plishments and hand- 
some appearance 
attracted the atten- 
tion of the proud and 
cruel Naudba, to 
whom it suddenly 
occurred that she 
might make him an 
instrument for rid- 
ding herself of her 

hated rival, the Prin- lE s 

cess Rajkooverbai, 

who was the favourite of her husband. (i If 
*he were dead, '* argued Naudba, (i I should 
have the undivided attention and affection 
of Chundra + T> Having brought herself to 
this frame of mind, she set herself to work 
to give effect to her desires ; and, by the 
aid of a trusty servant, she sent an artfully 
couched message to the handsome boy, in 
which it was hinted that the beautiful 
Princess Rajkooverbai had, while sitting 
behind her purda of pierced marble, and 
which commanded a view of the courtyard, 
frequently gazed with longing eyes upon 
him, and that he had only to play his cards 
well to win her favours and her love. 

The designing and treacherous Naudba 
did not overestimate the material she had 
to work upon* The mind of Saadut was 
inflamed, and his vanity flattered- To 
have attracted the attention of so renowned 
a beauty as Princess Rajkooverbai was 
indeed a thing to be proud of, from his 
point of view* Now, it was true that the 


true that the 


poor little Princess did sit daily behind her 
screen, where she could see without being 
seen ; and in her lonely captivity — for the 
wife of an Indian noble is little better than 
a captive — she had no doubt heard the 
laughter and the bustle that went on all day 

in the courtyard, 
and longed and 
sighed for the free- 
dom enjoyed by the 
humble followers of 
her lord, but which 
— high born as she 
was — was denied to 
her. She must even 
have seen Saadut 
often enough, and 
heard him singing 
his love ditties at 
night as he accom- 
panied himself on 
his cithar, while his 
admiring eompan* 
ions lounged about, 
and smoked their 
nilgherries, and 
bubble -bubbles, 
Probably, too, her 
woman's heart may 
have beat a trifle 
faster as she gazed 
on his handsome 
face, and heard his 
melodious voice, 
dut/ 1 though it is doubt- 

ful whether she 
would have taken the initiative in making 
known to him that he had raised in her 
feelings of admiration. But Saadut, believ- 
ing the message that had been sent to him, 
began to dream dreams, and often when the 
Princess was being carried to her bath in 
the morning he placed himself in such a 
position that he got glimpses of her as she 
reclined in her magnificent palanquin ; and, 
fancying that his amorous glances found 
favour, he grew bolder, and, composing 
love songs artfully framed to make known 
his passion, he sang them beneath her 
apartments when he knew that she was 
seated behind the carved marble purda with 
none but her women attendants about her, 
" Love hath a special voice, and speaks 
only in one language," says an Indian pro- 
verb. And soon, Princess Rajkooverbai, 
pining in her lonely grandeur, and sighing 
for the liberty denied to her, but which was 
enjoyed by those of lowlier birth, awakened 
to a consciousness of rhe fact that the hand- 



.^ *#*>f^ 




somest youth amongst all her husband's 
retainers was filled with love for her. No 
wonder that her head was turned, when all 
the circumstances of the case are consi- 
dered, and T notwithstanding the terrible 
danger she must have known she ran, she 
began to give Saadut signs that she was not 
indifferent to his attentions. 

Encouraged by this, Saadut grew still 
bolder, and he bribed a woman of the 
Palace to convey a love song he had specially 
written to the Princess. 

For some days he waited in dread sus- 
pense, wondering what would be the fate of 
hi5 missive. He knew perfectly well that 
his life would not be worth an hour's pur- 
chase if the great Chowan came to know 
that he T a servant, had dared to breathe love 
to the Princess, But at last his mind was 
relieved by the receipt of an answer from 
Raj koo verbai, which she had entrusted to 
a faithful slave.. 

For months a correspondence was thus 
kept up between the girl Princess and the 
boy retainer, until at last Saadut was moved 
to plead with the beautiful girl to grant him 
an interview. Unable to resist his prayer, 

Digitized by \j ; 

she setit back word 
that on a certain night 
he might climb to her 
chamber window by 
means of a rope ladder 
she would throw out. 
The window of the 
chamber in which was 
the Princess's couch 
was little more than 
twelve feet from the 
ground H and faced a 
private garden that was 
at right angles with 
the courtyard, but 
which it was looked 
upon as all but sacrilege 
for the servants to 
enter, as it was sacred 
to the ladies of the 
zenana. But what will 
love not dare ! The 
night chosen for the 
meeting was one when 
the lovers knew there 
would be no moon, and 
the hour when the 
Chowan and his sons 
had sat down to their 
evening meal. As in 
most Indian chambers 
of the kind, the couch 
was so arranged that it could be turned into 
a swinging cot, if desired, by means or 
hooks in the ceiling, to which cords were 
attached. The Princess, who had dismissed 
all her attendants, but the faithful slave, 
caused the slave to knot one of the cords, 
and lower it from the window. Such a 
means of ascent presented no difficulties to 
an Indian youth, and Saadut — who having 
surreptitiously obtained entrance into the 
garden, was lying in wait — seized the 
cord, and in a few moments he and the 
Prin cess were clasped in each other's arms, 
The meeting was necessarily of short dura- 
tion, but when the lovers parted they 
vowed to meet again* 

Let it not be supposed that during the 
time Saadut had been making known his 
passion for Kajkooverbai the jealous 
and wicked Naudba had remained indif- 
ferent. She had lighted the fire, and 
eagerly she watched its progress, for she had 
spies all over the Palace ; and that first 
meeting at the window was made known 
to hen But, with devilish artfulness, she 
determined that the time was not yet ripe 
for bringing the matter under the notice of 




Chundra. He was greatly attached to the 
Princess, and Naudba feared that, unless he 
was* aroused to a pitch of fury by jealousy f 
he would overlook Raj koo verbal "s indis- 
cretion j and forgive her. So Kaudba waited, 
like a tigress waiting for her prey. She 
knew that if she was patient her prey would 
be secured. 

All unaware of their danger, the lovers 
were emboldened by that first meeting, and 
three or four letters a day passed between 
them. At last they resolved to meet again, 
and an assignation was made. This time 
th« Princess arranged to leave her chamber 
by means of the knotted cord, and go to a 
bower in the garden. 

The night came, and, as it seemed to the 

lovers, the 


elements favoured them 

not only was it intensely dark, but rain 
was falling* At the appointed hour, and 
while her lord feasted, Rajkooverbai 
silently threw open her casement, and, with 
the aid of her devoted slave, slid down the 
cord and fled to the bower where Saadut 
was waiting for 

All was silent, 
save for the 
whirring and 
chirping of the 
thousand and one 
insects that make 
an Indian night 
melodious. The 
soft rain pattered 
on the great palm 
leaves, and drove 
the fireflies to 
seek shelter ; but 
the odours of 
many flowers 
made the air 
languid and 
dreamy. Exter- 
nal influences, 
however, affected 
not the lovers 
Clasped in each 
other's arms they 
forgot everything 
save the passion 
of love, and on 
each other's lips 
they sealed their 
devotion, But 
suddenly sounds 

arose to which they could not be deaf. 
They became aware of some extraordinary 
commotion in the Palace. There was the 

Digitized by t_Ti 

scuffling of many feet, the clanking of 
anns, the flashing of torches, the hubbub of 
men's voices. 

" Allah save us ! We are discovered ! " 
whispered the Princess, "Fly — fly, Saadut, 
as you love me ! ?1 

il No,' ' he answered, firmly ; " as you are 
in danger I will share it with you." 

"Saadut, Saadut!" she moaned, "pain 
me not. I may be able to appease my 
lord's anger ; but, should he discover us 
together, he will slay us both, tJ 

'* 1 cannot gu and leave you to his wrath j" 
replied Saadut, who was a brave youth* 
"Fly with me ; we may easily gain the 
river, where we can obtain a boat, and 
before the day breaks we will be far away/' 
Rajkooverbai was more practical than 
he was, and assured him that flight was 
iinpossible. Her husband's mounted re~ 
tainers would scour the country, and leave 
no road open. Their only chance of 
escape was by relying on her woman's wit, 
and trusting to her influence over her hus- 
band. In spite of this argument, Saadut 
seemed reluctant to go + But the commo- 
tion was increasing. It was evident the 
whole Palace was aroused, 
and Chundra's deep voice 
could be heard as in angry 
tones he called his follow- 
ers to surround the 
garden ; and already 
the glare of the 
torches shone upon 
the dripping foliage, 

" Go — go, in the 
name of Brama, I 
beseech you, n pleaded 
^ the poor Prin- 
cess, in terrible 
distress. And, 
unable to resist 
her pleadings, 
Saadut hastily 
- embraced her, 
and had scarcely 
time to disappear 
amongst the 
thick bushes and 
clustering palm 
trees, and climb 
over a high wall, 
before the garden 

FLV-FLY, SAADUT." WaS fiHeJ W fr| T 

armed men, with 
Chundra leadings them. Swathing her face 
in her veil, Kajkooverbai slowly approached 
her enraged husband, and, restraining her 




excitement as best she could, she asked, as 
she knelt to him, ** What does all this 
mean, my lord ? " 

" Foul and degraded 
being, '* he answered, u it 
means that you have / 
dishonoured my name 
and house, and I am 
going to kill you," 

The Princess 
rose to her feet 
proudly, and, be- 
lieving that her 
lover was not 
known, and had 
effected his retreat, 
she cared nothing 
for herself. 

li I f you 
think I have 
you,* 1 she 
said cour- 


''kill me, but not here. Make not our 
trouble public. Let me go in, and I will 
kill myself quietly, and you can say I have 
died of some sudden illness/' 

To this her husband's only reply was a 
terrific blow with a staff he carried. And 
he beat her until she fell quivering to the 
ground, But in a few moments she sprang 
up by a desperate effort, and exclaimed with 
fiery energy : 

fc * My lord, I am not a bullock, that you 
should beat me thus* I am of royal blood, 
and demand such treatment as is due to a 

Again her husband's only reply was a 
savage blow that once more felled her to 
the ground. Then, ordering some of the 
servants to convey her to her chamber, he 
told others to follow him. And he made 
his way to the courtyard, and to the 

Digitized by W 

quarters occupied by the guard of the 
Palace. His object was to see Saadut's 
father, and compel him to produce his sou ; 
_ ^ for Naudba\s spies, who had 
conveyed the information 
that the Princess had es- 
caped from her room, also 
stated that Saadut was the 
lover. But what was 
C h u n d ra ' s surprise, 
when he reached the 
guardhouse, to find the 
youth -calmly seated, 
surrounded by com- 
panions, to whom he 
was singing. For the 
moment the Prince's 
suspicions were allayed f 
so far as the lad was 
concerned. He thought 
that he must have been 
misinformed ; and, without 
speaking, he strode back to 
the Palace, still maddened 
with jealous rage. 

In the meantime Princess 
Rajkooverbai had been taken 
to her apartments, She was 
battered and bruised by the 
severe beating her husband 
had given her. But she 
showed no signs of fear ; 
she uttered no moan. And 
now the savage Chundra 
burst into the room, 
41 What is the name of thy 
lover, false one ? " he cried menacingly. 

She drew herself up with all the pride of 
her race T and made answer : 

u Think you, my lord, that even if I had 
a lover I should betray him ? ?1 

u Do not seek to deceive me," roared 
Chundra, " or I'll hack you to pieces, 11 

u Kill me," she answered calmly, u as it 
so pleases you, But forget not that I am 
your wife, and of birth as noble as your 
own. And if you kill me there are those 
who will avenge my death, ri 

This answer seemed to enrage him more, 
and he ordered the cowering servants to 
seize her, and make the cord by which she 
had lowered herself from the window fast 
to her ankles. This being dwe, she was 
drawn up by means of the hook in the 
ceiling, and, while she hung in this terrible 
position, head downwards, her brutal hus- 
band belaboured her with a staff until it 
broke. Then he called for a tulwar, and 
beat her with the flat part until ha: dainty 




ViJt- * 


(lush was hacked and bleeding* At last his 
passion appeared to exhaust itself, and he 
gave orders that the suffering girl should 
be released and laid upon her couch. 

While this terrible scene was being 
enacted in the palace, Saadut s yielding to 
the urgent entreaties of his father, was 
flying through the darkness of the night to 
his native village, where he hoped to be 
safe for a time. But when Chundra left 
liis wife's room, he went straight to Naudba 
and demanded angrily if she was sure that 
Saadut was the lover. In reply Naudba 
produced her spies, who stated positively 
that it was Saadut. Then the Prince told 
some of his retainers to arrest the youth, 
and bring him to the vaults beneath the 
Palace. And a huge Arab slave was ordered 
to have ready a large crucible of boiling 
lead. In a very short time, however, 
word was brought to the Prince that Saadut 
was nowhere to be found. This seemed 
confirmatory of the lad's guilt, and Chundra 
offered a reward of a thousand rupees for 
his capture, 

'Digitized by GoOQ \z 

The next day 
Chundra visited his 
wife again. She was 
in a terrible state, 
and unable to move, 
nevertheless, on her 
firmly refusing to 
name her lover, he 
once more beat her ; 
though, in spite of the 
torture and agony she 
suffered, not a sound 
of murmuring escaped 
her lips. When the 
night came and there 
was no word of Saadut 
having been captured t 
the brutal Prince re- 
paired once more to 
Rajkooverbai's cham- 
ber. But she was now 
in a condition that his 
brutality could no 
longer affect her, for 
she was quite uncon- 
scious, and such a 
pitiable spectacle from 
the wounds he had 
inflicted that few men 
could have looked 
upon her without 
being moved. But 
Chundra was a Rajput 
Prince, and pity was 
unknown to him, when he considered that 
the honour of his house was at stake, and 
that wrongs were to be avenged t so, all un- 
conscious as she was, he beat her again and 

A few hours later, when the Indian dawn 
was breaking with a dazzling splendour of 
crimson and gold, poor Princess Rajkoo- 
verbai heaved a deep sigh, and, with a s mile , 
upon her beautiful face, passed away to 
one of the seven heavens, where man's 
brutal passions avail not. 

When the Prince was informed of her 
death, he ordered a report to be spread that 
she had died of snake-bite, for he knew that, 
though he was the son of Raja Jit Singh — 
the Lion of Victories — he might have to 
answer to the all-powerful Kaisar-MIind, 
the Empress of India, who would tolerate 
no murder in her dominions if she could 
help it. Time had been w F hen an Indian 
Prince could have beaten a dozen of 
his wives to death, and all that it would 
have led to would have been a feud, 
perhaps, between himself and some of his 




dead wives' relatives. But those days had 
gone by ; the fierce arbitrament of the 
sword had given place to the scales of 
Justice, and Chundra was fully aware that 
his brutal deed would be called murder in 
the more enlightened age in which he 

By a strange coincidence, on the very 
day of Princess Rajkooverbai's death, 
Saadut was captured by some of Chundra's 
retainers, who had been stimulated in their 
endeavours by the promised reward of a 
thousand rupees. They found him in his 
native village T about thirty miles away; he 
was kidnapped by a ruse and borne swiftly 
on horseback to the Palace, where he 
arrived as the sun was going down* 

Women had already laid out the Prin- 
cess's mangled body, which was now borne 
secretly through the Palace grounds to the 
burning ghat, on the banks of the Orsing, 
where a funeral pyre had already been pre- 
pared. No time was lost. The body of the 
beautiful girl was laid on the pyre, which 
was immediately fired, and, as the 
flames mounted high towards the darkening 
sky, two powerful Hindoos— looking stern 
and grim as 
avenging gods 
— came from the 
Palace grounds, 
leading between 
them the ill- 
starred Saadut, 
whose hands 

were bound close to his body. They led 
him to the burning pyre, and one of them 
said sternly : 

" Behold thy handiwork. She who 
through you dishonoured her lord is being 
consumed there, and the dark waters of the 
river that roll on to Cambay's Gulf will 
bear your accursed soul to the place of the 
damned, whither she has gone/ 1 

Before the youth could make any reply > 
a silken cord was dextrously twisted round 
his neck, and he was quickly strangled to 
death, Then the cords that bound him 
wGte cut, and his body was tossed into the 
rapidly flowing stream and quickly dis- 
appeared from sight. 

Two hours later the funeral pyre had 
done its work, and a heap of white ashes 
alone remained. Then Prince Chundra, ni 
the House of Singh, came from his Palace, 
and the ashes were collected into a brass 
bowl and given to him. And standing on 
the banks of the river he muttered a male- 
diction, and tossed the ashes of his mur- 
dered wife to the winds. And all fear of 
any medical evidence of the cause of her 
death being obtained was now past. 

Thus was con- 
summated one 
of the cruelest 
and most ro- 
mantic crimes 
that even the 
annals of India 
can furnish. 

4 *A ilLKLN CG&D WAS TWJ5TED ROUND HIS ilEf.]C." |"| 3 | f fQ fTl 


Weather tVatchers and their PVork, 



O old and young, to rich and 
poor, to the invalid and to 
the most robust, to the worker 
and to the pleasure-seeker, 
the weather is a source of 
perennial interest. It means 
so much to every one of us ; to our spirits, 
our tempers, our energies. In some way 
or other ninety -nine out of every hundred 
individuals are personally concerned in the 
response which nature will give to the 
daily query, " Will it rain ? M In the stately 
entrance halls of the houses of the wealthy, 
and in the humble abode of the peasant, 
we shall usually find some proof of the 
ever-present desire to know what is going 
to happen meteorologically. In the first 
case, the rise or fall of the barometer is 
looked to ; in the second, the relative posi- 
tions of the man and woman in the old 
Dutch weather-gauge, or the dryness or 
dampness of the seaweed brought home 
after some recent holiday, afford an indica- 
tion of the disposition of the Clerk of 
the Weather. As a rule, one of the 
first items turned to in the morning 
newspaper is the report and forecast issued 
by the Meteorological Office. One can 
imagine, for instance, how eagerly the 
unfortunate agriculturist in the dreary 

summer months of i8gi has sought to 
know the best or worst likely to befall his 
crops. Farmers are Laid to be especially 
fond of forecasts, and one of their number 
is credited with the assertion that they are 
a good thing, because if they promise fine 
weather, although they turn out to be 
wrong, they at least keep up one's spirits, 
and give one hopes of better times. 

The Clerk of the Weather, as Mr. R. H* 
Scott, the Chief of the Meteorological Office, 
is often called, is to be found in Victoria- 
street, S.W. The Meteorological Office is 
the centre to which observations taken at 
some eighty different stations throughout 
the country come three times daily. In 
the doorway charts containing the latest 
observations are posted at Q a.iji,, 1 1 a.m., 
and 3 p.m., whilst beneath the windows an 
the first floor the casual passer-by will 
notice boards which describe the state of 
the wind and weather at various places on 
the coasts of Ireland and England, The 
duty of the office is to secure for the benefit 
of the public a more or less complete record 
of the vagaries of nature. Whatever the 
mood of the great goddess, the meteoro- 
logist notes it down. He watches her at 
peace and at war, and enters up the number 
of her siuiie^ und the intensity of her 




passion. If she bursts into uncontrollable 
fury, say at Dublin f or Valentia, or Yar- 
mouth, the information reaches the office, 
and is despatched broadcast to all whom 
it may concern, Both calm and storm are 
registered with extreme care. 

The Meteorological Office is 
divided into three chief depart- 
ments- — (1) The marine, to which 
go all observations connected with 
the sea ; (2) the land t which deals 
with the weather on land ; and 
(3) the telegraphic, which concerns 
itself with the messages sent over 
the wires daily, and published 
as soon after they are received 
as. practicable. The observa- ' 
tions made are telegraphed at 
first in brief to the 
central office, and sub- 
sequently are for- 
warded in detail, When 

telligible to the outsider, and is then trans- 
ferred to a map, all changes which have 
occurred since the last report being studied 
minutely. Charts are then prepared for dis- 
tribution, showing the direction and force or 
the wind, the barometrical pressure, the 
temperature, and the atmospheric 
conditions generally. The com- 
prehensive idea which the Office 
thus acquires of what Nature is 
doing over a considerable portion 
of the earth T s surface, enables it to 
accomplish two useful pieces of 
work— to forecast the weather for 
the next twenty-four hours, and, 
if necessary, to warn particular 
localities to look out for squalls- 
Each London newspaper, and 
many provincial ones, are supplied 
with the information, whilst the 
reports are despatched to 400 
different people anxious to have 
the earliest weather intelligence daily. 
Some people are disposed to laugh at the 
forecasts made, but in the main they are 
very trustworthy, ft is never possible to 
be quite sure what will happen at any onef 
spot, but over a district the readings of the 

any message ar- 
rives, it is entered 
in a book full of 
symbols unin- 


barometer afford the 
. * practised meteorologist 
a fairly accurate idea 
of what is coming, and it is 
worthy of note that the failures, 
or partial failures, in the prophecies 
during a year are considerably less 
than 20 per cent. On the coast the 
prognostications of the Meteoro- 
logical Office have been of immense service. 
When a storm is approaching, the port or 
station receives an intimation to that effect, 
and many r r !l£U£feifouaa and excursionist 

^ 184 


owes his comfort, if 
not his life, to the 
friendly storm-cone 
hoisted to warn him 
either not to go out 
or to come in imme- 
diately. The belief of 
some good people in 
th e M e t eo rologica 1 
Office is so great that 
Mr. Scott has fre- 
quently received let- 
ters asking that cer- 
tain weather may be 
arranged for a day on 
which a flower-show 
or some other event 
in which the writers 
are concerned, takes 
place. One letter 
which he preserves 
came from Southend, 
and w T as addressed 
to — 

The Clerk of 
the Weather, 





Sun -court, 

February 15, 1889, and 

It was 
ran : — 

"My dear Clerk s — I must tell you I am 
very tired of this weather* We had some 
rain and snow + I supose (sic) you know 
all about it. Mamma told me to write. 
Please will you send us some fine weather, 
— (Signed) Coxnik." 

The Marine Department of the Office, 
presided over by Lieutenant Baillie, R.N. t is 
performing the most valuable work of collect- 
ing data referring to 
every current and 
every wind, and every 
temperature in every 
accessible sea. In this 
work the assistance 
of ships' captains is 
enlisted. The Office 
lends them instru- 
ments of the best and 
most reliable cha- 
racter comprising one 
barometer, six ther- 
mometer 5 f and four 
hydrometers. A rough 
book and a form of 
meteorological log are 
presented to the cap- 

tain, who, on his 
return, sends the lat- 
ter to Victoria -street* 
Some 200 captains 
are thus taking notes 
over various seas, and 
the logs stored up at 
the Office already 
number about 6,000. 
When the logs come 
iti they are very care- 
fully examined, cha- 
racters are given them 
— u good," H very 
good," or whatever 
it may be — they are 
then registered, and 
become part of the 
permanent records of 
the Office. The im- 
portance of the ob- 
servations taken by 
ships 1 captains cannot 
be over-estimated, and 
ready testimony is 
paid to the value of 
their services by the 
experts who deal with the reports. For 
some time past, for instance, the Office 
has been engaged in the study* of the 
currents of the seas over the whole globe, 
and these, together with cyclone tracks, 
and every other meteorological eccentricity, 
are all becoming known as a result of the 
labours of volunteer observers. Charts of 
currents for every month of the year are 
now being produced, and all prove of in- 
calculable use to the mariner in charge of 
precious cargo, and more precious lives. 
They tell him what the normal conditions 

should be, and if the conditions 
normal, he 


are not 
that extra precautions 
against mishaps must 
be taken. On the 
charts the direction 
of the currents is 
shown by myriads of 
liny arrows of all 
lengths, an arrow an 
inch long indicating 
a current of a hundred 
miles in the twenty- 
four hours* 

As with the Marine, 
so with the Land 
Department. There 
are any number of 
* suti&Kira jtMconDim, Original fro volunteer workers 



185 ^ 

who take observations daily at 9 a.m. 
and g p.m. Throughout the Empire 
observations are being made by officers 
of the Royal Engineers and of the Army 
Medical Department, among them being 
Sir Charles Warren, whose pictures of 
the phases of the moon taken at Gib- 
raltar, are religiously preserved. For the 
convenience of observers of all nations, an 
international code exists, so that when the 
observations are entered up they are as 
intelligible to a Russian or a Frenchman as 
to an Englishman. The chief work of the 
Land Department, however, naturally lies 
within England itself, where it has been 
very thorough. For 
years back they can 
tell one what hap- 
pened at any par- 
ticular place near one 
of their observatories 
on any particular day. 
In Victoria-street 
there is a continuous 
record of barometrical 
pressure, of how fast 
the wind blew, of how 
much rain fell, and 
of how much sun- 
shine we enjoyed. 

Having now gleaned 
some idea of the Cen- 
tral Office and its 
work, we will take a 
trip to Richmond, 
and make a hurried 
inspection of the Kew 
Observatory, It is 
convenient to take 
Kew, because here is 
to be seen all that is to be seen elsewhere 
and much more, Kew Observatory does 
several things besides take notes of the 
atmosphere. It tests watches, chrono- 
meters, telescopes, binoculars, &c. f and 
issues certificates with them. One of our 
pictures shows a man at work engraving 
the Kew Observatory monogram on 
Admiralty binoculars, which have success- 
fully stood the tests applied, Kew Observa- 
tory also has a history. It is built on the 
ruins of a monastery, and is really a Royal 
Palace, devoted to its present purpose 
during the Sovereign's pleasure, George 
III. had a laboratory here, and always took 
great interest in the observations made from 
this spot. Before he lost his reason he 
himself often made observations of the sun 


at the Houses of Parliament and the Horse 
Guards in Whitehall used to be regulated. 
The present Observatory was erected by his 
command in order that the transit of Venu^ 
in 1769 might be watched. 

Of the thousands of people who go to 
Kew and Richmond every week, few pro- 
bably know of the existence of the Observa- 
tory, and, when they see it for the first time, 
either from the river or across a park three- 
quarters of a mile long, are surprised to 
find that it does not stand on an elevation. 
Ben Nevis seems to the ordinary mind a 
much more appropriate spot for an observa- 
tory than a flat field by the river side. 
Ben Nevis, among 
British observatories, 
is an exceptionally 
interesting and sug- 
gestive place. The 
mountain itself is the 
highest in the British 
Isles. The Observa- 
tory, of which, 
through the courtesy 
of Mr. R. T. Omond, 
the superintendent, 
we are able to give 
two excellent pictures, 
is, it should be said, 
not under the Meteor- 
ological Office, but 
copies of its observa- 
tions are sent to 
London regularly in 
return for an annual 
grant. When, a few 
years ago, it was 
decided to build the 
Observatory, a public 
appeal was made for subscriptions, and the 
widespread interest taken in meteorology is 
shown by the fact that the sums sent in 
ranged from id. up to ^2CO. Our illustra- 
tions afford some idea of the sort of duty the 
observer o n Be 11 Ne v i s h as t o f ace, Fo r se v e r a I 
months of the year the Observatory is, 
except for the electric wire, entirely cut off 
from the outer world, and has to be pro- 
visioned against the long siege maintained 
by the elements, One winter, the road up 
to the top was for six weeks absolutely im- 
passable. In February, 1884, the weather 
was so bad that the outside instruments had 
to be studied by two observers lashed 
together, whilst storms have been so severe 
at times that observations have been quite 
out of the question. At other times, Nature 

passing the meridian, by which the clocks seems anxiou? to compensate the watchers 

by K: 



1 86 


tor these trials, by transferring her demon- 
strations lower down. The Observatory 
then enjoys clear sunshine 
for days and weeks, whilst 
all below is enveloped in 

impenetrable mist 

and fog. 

Nothing of this 
sort, bitter though the weather may be in 
all parts of the British Isles, is ever seen 
at the Kew Observatory, to which we are 
about to pay our hasty visit, under 
the kindly guidance of Mr. G. M. ■HKZ 
Whipple, the superintendent. As 
you approach the Observatory, the 
first thing you notice and want to 
know all about, is the anemometer 
on the top. Four cups at the end 
of short iron rods are whirling 
more or less rapidly, according as 
there is much or little wind. 
These, you learn, are in con- 
nection with an Instrument inside 
the building, which records the 
rate at which they turn, and con- 
sequently the rate at which the 
wind is travelling. Sometimes 
Master Boreas takes it in his head 
to fly over the earth's surface at 
the not very moderate rate of 
ninety miles an hour ; at others he 
is content with a few miles in that 
time. Whatever he does, his pace 
is infallibly noted. A cylinder 
revolves by clockwork. When 
there is little wind, a pencil which 
touches the paper on the cylinder 
travels along it horizontally, but 
when there is much wind it travels 
across it more or less perpendicu- 
larly, as it were. Thus the inclina- 
tion at which the pencil line runs 

Digitized by CiOOQ I C 

round or along the paper indicates the rate at 
which the wind has passed over the earth's 

surface. Some- 
times it will go 
for a day right 
along the cylin- 
der — that will 
show calm ; some- 
times it will go a 
little way along, 
then suddenly be- 
gin to move across 
it, or at any rate 
to incline down- 
wards : that would 
indicate that irom 
a calm there had 
suddenly sprung 
up a considerable 
breeze. Self-re- 
corders are con- 
nected also with (i) the barometer, the rise 
and fall of the mercury being continuously 
photographed, (2) the magnetometer which, 
placed in a cellar, marks any magnetic 
disturbance underground, the movements 
of the needles being photographically re- 
corded by an ingenious arrangement of 







lights and mirrors, and (3) a temperature 
and moisture indicator* The rain gauge 
in the garden is a receptacle provided with 
a funnel through which the water runs, 
and the depth to which the earth would 
be covered if it were flat and there were no 
means of escape for the water t is recorded 
by a I ever, which moves a pencil, the pointed 
end of which touches a piece of cardboard- 
Even lightning is made to record itself. A 
little stream of water for ever running 
through a pipe projecting from the wall of 
the observatory picks up any electricity in 
the air, and carries it into an instrument, 
which automatically notifies its presence. 

Photography enters largely into the work 
of the Observatory. By its means it is 
possible to secure records more reliable and 
more complete than those of the human 
hand and eye could ever be. In taking a pic- 
ture of the clouds, to determine their height 
and rate of motion, one operator stands on the 
roof of the Observatory and another is placed 
half a mile away across 
the park. The two posi- 
tions are connected by the 
telephone, and both men 
expose their plates at the 
same instant, so that the 
cloud is caught from the 
two points simultaneously. 
Photography has also, as 
Professor Huggins in his 
fascinating address before 
the British Association in 
August last showed, been 

Digitized by 


of incalculable 
service in en- 
abling the as- 
tronomer to learn 
more and more of 
the marvels of the 
heavens, I n - 
numerable stars 
which are invisi- 
ble to the eye of 
man through 
however powerful 
a glass, are caught 
by the sensitive 
dry plate, and, as 
will be seen from 
our picture of the 
sky at night (for 
which we are 
indebted to the 
Editor of Kn&w* 
iedge)^ their num- 
ber is very great. 
The large, diamond-like star is one of those 
which are visible to man's naked orb. At 
Kew r , however, astronomical photography 
has been limited to investigations of the 


OUTSIDE TM» DUMB, tty^Jf^ NWffff *™> 




changes taking place in the solar surface. 
The labours of the Observatory in con- 
nection with the sun have been so per- 
sistent that photographs taken by the large 
telescope in the dome of the Observatory 
exist from 1839 to quite recently. Placed 
on the roofs so that they may catch any ray 
of sunshine there may be, are two sunshine 
recorders* One is a bowl of wood, over which 
is placed a spherical glass three or four 
inches in diameter ; the other is a brass 
bowl, inside which is a specially prepared 
piece of blue cardboard. When the sun 
shines on the first it burns the 
wood away, and as the bow! 
remains there for six months! the 
amount of wood charred shows 
what " bright Phoebus TT has been 
doing to gladden this earth of ours 
during that time ; the second 
records his appearance through 
one day only. When the sun 
shines it burns a line on the 
cardboard, and his disappearance 
for any length of time is notified 
by the absence of the charred line. 
The notion here turned to scientific 
account is precisely that of the 
smoker whose matches have failed 
him. If the sun be shining he 
takes a spectacle glass, and holding 
it between the sun and his pipe, 
secures a light. 

Rapid as has been our glance at 
the operations of both the Meteor- 
ological Office and one of the 
principal observatories associated 
with it, we have said enough to 
show their importance. When 
one thinks of the accumulation of 
meteorological minutiae which is 
resulting from the preservation of 
the reports from so many places as 
to the wind, rain, sunshine, and 
all the rest of it, one may be 
tempted to ask whether it is worth 
the trouble it involves? If the observa* 
tions are of use to those who want to know 
the probable state of the weather during 
the next twenty -four hour?, where can be 
the utility of tabulating them year after 
year with as much care as is exercised in 
the registering of births, marriages, and 
deaths ? Well, many an agriculturist would 
give a satisfactory reply to this question. 
Suppose he wishes to ascertain the amount 
of moisture his land is likely to require. 
The Meteorological Office can inform him 
precisely as to the average quantity of rain 

Digitized by LiOOgLC 

which has fallen in his district for years 
past* Or, supposing one is particularly 
anxious to ascertain the climatic character 
of a place where one is thinking of living, 
or to which one wishes to send an invalid 
friend. To learn whether the place is dry 
or damp, windy or quiet, one has only to 
go to the Meteorological Office, and the 
chances are its pigeon-holes will supply the 
very information wanted. Or, say, a civil 
engineer Is about to build sewers in some 
new locality. One of the things he has to 
guard against is making them too small 

1 v\ i 



to carry off the rain water which is likely to 
fall But how is he to tell whether the 
normal amount is little or much ? He 
applies to the Meteorological Office, and 
they can Inform him not only how much 
rain fell on an average every hour of every 
day in the last twenty years, but exactly 
how often there had been exceptional 
downpours, which would make great de- 
mands on the drains. The civil engineer 
thus learns precisely what it is of the 
utmost importance he should know. Or, 
to look at the matter from another point of 


Weather watchers and their work 


view, take the question of bridge building. 
The bursting of a sewer is undoubtedly a 
serious matter, but the overflowing of a 
river is more serious still- During last year t 
it will be remembered both in Australia 
and in Spain terrible floods occurred, 
Hundreds of lives were lost, thousands of 
men and women were rendered homeless, 
and thousands of pounds 1 worth of property 
was destroyed. In both cases — and the 
coincidence is one which, so far as we know, 
has never been pointed out — the disaster 
was attributed to the presence of bridges 
which were so built that they practically 
formed darns* In ordinary conditions they 

did no harm, but when there came an ex- 
ceptional volume of water, the structures 
prevented it from getting away down the 
proper channel, and the country was 
inundated, with consequences of the most 
tragic character. In the future, no bridge 
not already built ought to be responsible for 
such a catastrophe. Weather watchers and 
recorders will be able to tell the engineer 
what is possible, if not probable, and he 
will construct his bridge accordingly. How- 
ever much, therefore, we may laugh at the 
meteorological prognosticate^ we cannot 
deny that the work of meteorology is of the 
very highest utility. 


by Google 

Original from 

His Chance at Last. 

By Harry How. 

LEMENT and Henry Wal- 
ford were twin brothers — how 
like and yet how unlike. In 
appearance there was every- 
thing to lead one to see that 
they could both lay claim 
to the same birthday ; their faces were 


identical, their figures the same. Fortune, 
however, had placed them in totally dis- 
tinct channels. Their mother, in her day 
(for she had been dead these twenty years), 
was an actress of rare ability, and people 
had crowded the theatres night after night 
to follow her impressive acting, Both 
her sons had inherited her talents in no 


small measure, and, two years previous to 
her death, they had launched out in their 
first struggle to win fresh laurels for the 
name around which all that was gifted had 
gathered. Talents, alas! may live and 
shine, yet they may live and scarcely 
flicker. To-day, these two men were 
brothers only in name. The gifts of the 
one had been recognised by a fickle public, 
the abilities of the other never even had a 

Clement Watford ! His name was on 
everybody's lips. The critics gave him 
columns in the papers, theatrical managers 
almost knelt at his feet, and paid eagerly 
the money he demanded to secure his 
services ; society held open its doors, and 
the great actor entered at his ease. And 
Henry ? A struggler — nothing more ; a dis- 
appointed struggles Clever, but unknown ; 


'ttBf Annum 




gifted, but unheard of His brother's 
success may have cut him t but it never dis- 
couraged him. He laboured on, still hope- 
ful. Whilst the popular man was rich in 
London f the other was hovering on the 
very edges of poverty. There were times 
when he had been forced to write to his 
brother a letter asking for help, but no 
reply ever came. The poor man's wife 
had even knocked at the great actor *s door ; 
but the response from a servant's lips was 
that " Mr. Walford was engaged/' And 
so the brothers lived. The one utterly 
oblivious to the 
ties of relation- 
ship, the other 
hoping for recog- 
nition and recon- 
ciliation at last. 

Clement Wal- 
ford *s triumph 
was at hand. 
Hitherto Shake- 
speare's charac- 
ters had with him 
remained un- 
touched, but 
paragraphs in the 
newspapers had 
just appeared, an- 
nouncing the fact 
that it was his 
intention to ap- 
pear at an early 
date as Hamlet. 
Everybody, from 
manager to 
public, was san- 
guine of a great 
success ; it was 
the topic of the 
clubs, the conver- 
nation of the 
critics, Clement 
Walford himself 
felt inwardly com- 
fortable and satis- 
fied that failure 
with him could 
never be. Suc- 
cess ! Success ! Success ! He harped on 
that word at night, saw the dream of his 
life realised as he walked the streets to 
rehearsal, and heard the enthusiasm of the 
people, and watched them clamouring 
there, even 111 the empty theatre, as scene 
by scene was gone through at rehearsal on 
the stage. In all this he was alone with 
himself. He thought of Clement Walford 

and of him alone, A brother ! He had 
none. The other had had the same chances 
— why did he not take them ? If a man, 
even his own flesh and blood, snapped his 
fingers at his opportunities^ was it for him 
to put them in his grasp ? 

The night drew near. The day before 
the performance had arrived and the last 
rehearsal had been held. Clement Walford 
returned to his rooms. He stood before the 
gilded mantelpiece and looked into the glass. 
He started back ! He felt giddy. Again 
he looked into the mirror with straining 

"he started back 

eye. He had never seen such a deathly 
pallor on his face before. He smiled at his 
foolishness. He attempted to reach a chair, 
but found his feet would scarcely carry him. 
Make what effort he might his head was 
dropping on to his breast, he felt his hands 
trembling and looked at them to see if it 
was true. Jncjinsl from 



ness — overdoing it," he cried ; " a drink of 
water — brandy — will set me right. Where's 
the bell-rope ? Ah ! there it is/ T and crawl- 
ing towards the cord, across the room, he 
just managed to reach it when he fell to the 

When he awoke he lay in bed, the doctor 
standing by* He lifted his eyes towards 
those of the doctor. 

" Why — why am I here ? How long 
have I been here ? Is this — is this the first 
night ? ,T he asked. 

" You have been here a few hours, that 
is all/ 1 was the doctor's reply. u Lie quite 
still — keep your hands in bed T now." 

i( Thank God I Thank God I " the man 
said, u I was afraid it was the first night. 
What's the matter with me ? What's the 
matter with mc ? Why don't you answer ? 
Don't look at me like that ; answer me ! " 

" You have been doing too much lately — 
you are not strong. TT 

" Not strong ! " 

u And nothing but perfect rest will bring 
you round again/ 1 the doctor said. H You 
have " 

u What ? what ? Tell me quickly ! " 

" You have broken a blood-vessel/ 1 

The man looked at the doctor for a 
moment. Then he rose in his bed. His 
voice was scarcely discernible ; it was cold 
and harsh : it was not the voice of the man 
whose tone had fascinated 
all its hearers. He looked 
the medical man wildly 
in the face* He asked, 
quietly at first : 

14 Do you know what 
to-morrow night is ? No ; 


me. You are a stranger to my strength. 
Don't speak a word, I shall only ridicule 
your warning, I tell you, you don't know 
me. Take your hand away — take it away. 
What do you say ? Rest — rest here, or I 
must — what ! Die ? Die ! You talk madly. 
No, no, I shall live ! Live in myself for 
years, live in the memory of all for ever. 
After to-morrow night ! After to-morrow 
night ! Give me a drink of water ! M 

With trembling hands the man refused 
the aid of the doctor, but lifted the glass to 
hisltpsand gulped down the contents. Hour 
after hour passed ; the night had gone, and 
with the first signs of the approaching day 
the doctor — who had remained a faithful 
watcher all through the night — drew aside 
the window-curtains, and the light streamed 
in upon the man as he lay in his bed. It 
lit up the face of a man whose life was fast 
going. He looked almost pitifully towards 
the doctor, 

"I shall be there to-night, eh? 1 - he 
asked. " I mustn't disappoint them, doctor. 
Let me run through my lines with you. 
Do ! There is my Shakespeare— there, on 
that table by the window. It was my 
mother's gift. Bring it to me carefully/ 1 

The doctor silently did as he was bid. 
He knew that he was obeying the wishes 
of one for whom he could not do much 
more. When he turned his head he saw 

of course you don't 
I do. It is the 
night of *■ Ham- 
let/ and I shall 
be there — there, 
with the house 
before me, hang- 
ing on every word 
I utter. Do you 
think this bed 
will hold me 
from my triumph T 
do you think you, 
or the warning 
of any man, will 
prevent me from 
welcoming the 
hour of my suc- 
cess? Not strong! 
You don't know 



unoriginal from 



that the dying man had raised himself in 
the bed, 

"Turn to the Third Act — the First Scene. 
I enter. Listen now,, and tell me what 
effect this has upon you. Listen [ 

" To be, or not to be, that is die question :— 
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer 
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune ; 
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 
And, by opposing, end them ? To die,— to sleep*— 
No more ;— and, by a sleep, to say we end 
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks 
That flesh is heir to, — 'tis a consummation 
Devoutly to be wished. To die r — to sleep ; — 
To sleep I perchance to dream ; ay t — there's the 

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, 

" Why do you stare at me ? Keep your 
eyes on the book and not on me. 
" For in that sleep of death what dreams may come." 

Then the man stopped. He murmured 
these words yet again and again ; then, 
turning to the doctor, he told him what he 
well knew— that he was dying. 

u Do you know what would be my dream 
in that long sleep? " he asked wildly and 
yet plaintively. " I will tell you. My 
brother ! He would mock at me that I 
was snapped off in the very moment of 
my triumph. He would point at me and 
laugh. I, who had refused to hold out a 
helping hand to him and exert my influ- 
ence to better his position. Oh! Icouldn^ 
bear that ! Harry, Harry, old fellow, if 
I could only see you 
again, if I could only 
ask you to forgive me . 
before it is too late j if 
I — Doctor/' he cried 
suddenly " I must see 
rtiy brother Harry 1 I 
must see him ! You'll 
find his address in 
that desk — send for 
him. Tell him his 
brother Clem wants to 

the doctor saw that the man was dying, he 
had asked the servants if their master had 
any relations living. They only knew of 
one — a brother he never saw, a brother 
who only a few days before had knocked 
at the door, and had gone away unseen. 
They knew his address, for he had left 
it, He had come up to London, 
hoping against hope that still the great 
actor would endeavour to get him an 
engagement. So the doctor telegraphed 
to him, and he had only just that moment 
come, "* r 

u Send him to me — now — at once," the 
dying man said in a voice now weak. 
u Tell him, before he comes up, that his 
brother Clem is longing to see him." 

The doctor went to the door and called \ 
and when he saw Henry Walford ascending 
the stairs, he started in surprise. How like 
these two men were; how wonderfully 
like ! But one, though poverty had lined 
her story upon his face, looked strong and 
well, the other man was dying fast. Quietly 
he entered, 

speak to him, 

and do 
he has 


at last what 

always refused, 

in that desk," 

The doctor quietly 
laid the patient's head 
upon the pillow, Then 
he told him that which 
brought a wild smile of 
gladness to his pallid 
face. He laughed at 
the news. His brother 
Harry w T as below wait- 
ing even then. When 





" Harry, old fellow/' one said, lifting a. 
hand out of bed with a last strength, 

" Clem I Clem ! " the other cried, taking 
the proffered hand, and putting the other 
arm around his neck, and lifting his head 
up. Then the two men kissed each 

"Harry, old boy ! Fm dying ; I know it. 
I shall have missed to-night, shan't I? but 
I've found you, Come nearer to me and 
listen ! Harry, I've been cruel to you — you 
forgive me ? " 

The other clasped his hand. 

" No, no ; say it ! Say, 'I forgive you ! ' " 

u Clem, my brother ; I forgive you, 
Clem," Henry Walford said, through his 

" I shan't be able to talk much, so I must 
say it quickly, A little water— jest wet my 
lips. Thank you— thank you, old fellow, 
Now, listen earnestly to me. Come very 
near. Harry, your chance has come at 
last — and to-night. You can take it in my 
stead, for I shan't be here. You know the 
part ? Ah ! I thought so— you have played 
it many times. But mine — mine is a daring 
plot. There is my fur coat on the back of 
that chair— put it on. Yes ; neveT mind 
about letting go my hand— put it on, 
Harry. 1 ' 

Henry Walford did so. 

" Yes — yes— it is myself. Go down to 
the theatre to-night. Walk in at the stage 

door without saying a word. They will 
p touch their hats to you and let you pass* 
Go to my room — it is the first on the left. 
Make-up— dress — everything is there. Be 
in readiness — the orchestra will commence, 
the curtain will rise, and — and — as — you 
* — step on to the stage, the house will 
ring with applause. Your chance— has- — 
come— at — last Thank God — I — your 
brother, Clem — can give it to you. Harry 
- — Harry, old fellow — Harry— hold my hand 
— Fin— good-bye — put your arms— round 
me — Harry — Harry — tf 

The man fell back in his brother's arms 
— dead ! 

That night the theatre was packed, The 
stage-door keeper touched his hat to the 
great actor as he passed through without a 
word. The prompter's bell rang and the 
curtain rose. Hamlet entered, and the 
noise was deafening, and when the curtain 
fell, he who played the Prince was called 
again and again. On the morrow the news- 
papers devoted column after column in 
eulogising a remarkable performance, " one 
that would live in the memory of all who 
had seen it." Then, when the truth came 
out, the excitement and curiosity were in- 
creased twofold. Clement Walford was 
ever remembered, Henry Walford from that 
night was never forgotten. His chance 
had come at last. 



By F. G, Kitton. 

F the millions who are wont to 
travel by rail, how many are 
cognisant of the heavy and 
serious responsibility which 
rests upon those in charge of 
the train ? Even those who 
understand it do not give the subject a 
pacing thought ; familiarity begets indif- 
ference, and the tired traveller arrives at his 
destination unmindful of possible dangers 
that have been averted by the skill and 
cool judgment of the driver, the watchful- 
ness of the guard, and by the signalman's 
strict attention to duty. These indispen- 
sable qualifications have brought him safely 
to his journey ? s end, after, perchance, a 
cruel battle with the elements and other 
conflicting conditions ; but, unconscious of 
all this, he alighU from the train, secures 
his belongings, and looks upon the whole 
transaction as a matter of course. Only 
those who have experienced what I am 
about to describe can fully realise the 
nature and extent of this responsibility for 
the .safety of human lives, or conceive how 
great is the continued mental strain to which 
those in charge of an bL Express '■ are sub- 

Having always entertained a strong desire 
to Indulge in the novel sensation of travel- 
ling on the footplate of a locomotive, it 
may readily be imagined with vvl at feelings 
of pleasurable anticipation I awaited the 
realisation of my wish. One fitu* October 

morning I left King's Cross by the 11.45 
train as an ordinary passenger to Grantham, 
armed with an '* Engine Pass" for the re- 
turn journey by the 4,27 p.m. Special Scotch 
Express. I had selected this particular train 
and route for two reasons — first, because 
this Scotch Express (significantly named 
,( The Flying Scotchman M ) is believed to 
be the fastest train in the woild ; and 
secondly, because this portion of its long 
journey from the North is performed at the 
greatest spee^ t the distance of 105^ miles 
being accomplished without stopping. 

The engine that conveys me to Grantham 
will return with the Scotchman to London, 
It is known by the Company's servants as 
"No. 774," and was specially attached to 
this train in order that I might see what 
could be accomplished in the matter of speed 
by this particular class of locomotive. It is 
technically described as an 8-ft. wheel ex- 
press passenger engine T and was designed 
by Mr. Patrick Stirling, the engineer of the 
Great Northern Railway Company, The 
first of its class was made in 1869, when 
there was a prospect of very keen competi- 
tion for the Scotch traffic, and when speed 
had to play an important part in the con- 
test* In 1880 one of these engines took a 
special train with the Lord Mayor from 
King's Cross to York (a distance of i88£ 
miles) in a little more than 3^ hours, the 
average speed being nearly 55 miles an 
hour ; and during the so-called " Race 

Original from 




to Edinburgh/' in the summer of ]888, 
these engines did very good work, 
averaging 554 miles per hour. Therefore, 
engines of this class are principally used for 
" express" work, the drivers preferring thern, 
to any other. 

We are timed to reach Grantham at 2.2$ 
p.m., and arrive there punctually to the 
minute. Here our engine is taken off 
and shunted into a siding, to await the 
arrival of the u up ? ' express, the Flying 
Scotchman, due at 4.22 p,m, ; but the two 
hours 7 interval does not mean a period of 
entire rest for the men, for both driver and 
fireman have important duties to carry out. 
The former must thoroughly overhaul the 
engine, examine and lubricate the working 
parts, while the latter lays in a fresh supply 
of fuel and water, sufficient for the home 
journey* When this is satisfactorily accom- 
plished, I introduce myself to the driver as 
his fellow-traveller to London. A hale, 


genial mail is Samuel Watson — of medium 
stature, with iron-grey whiskers, whose 
ruddy complexion sufficiently indicates that 
he is none the worse for years of constant 
exposure to our variable climate. He and 
his cheerful mate, Harry Collarbone, the 

Digitized by Vj* 

fireman, welcome me as, for the first time, I 
step on the footplate. Here the apparently 
complicated array of levers, gauges, and 
pipes attracts my attention, and an explana- 
tion of their various uses renders clear 
what had hitherto been unintelligible to 
me ; then I ask Watson to tell me some- 
thing about himself, for we learn that the 
Scotchman will be twenty minutes Jate, so 
there is time for a chat. 

"You want some particulars of my 
career ? Well, sir, I don't know that I 
have anything important to tell you, for 
the experience of all engine-drivers ismuch 
about the same, although some are un- 
fortunate enough to meet with more acci- 
dents than others. I began life as a boy in 
the lamp-room at Hitch in ; then I went 
into the cleaning-shed at King's Cross, to 
clean engines at 2s. 6d, a day. After three 
years I became fireman on a main line 
passenger train to Peterboro', and in another 
five years was promoted to the posi- 
tion of driver of a shunting engine 
in the i goods' yard at King's Cross. 
I was then appointed as driver of 
local traffic trains, and in duo tim£ 
became driver of the Cambridge ex- 
press. During the last five years 
(on and off) I have worked express 
trains on the Great Northern main 
line ; but it was my ambition to be 
driver of the special Scotch express, 
the fastest train in the world ; and 
during the last twelve months T have 
been regularly employed in running 
this very train from London to 
Grantham and back, three Sundays 
in four excepted. Only four drivers 
are engaged for this particular 
journey* Some drivers don't care 
for fast running, because they get so 
much shaking, and the journeys are 
I longer without a stop." 

I ask Watson whether he has felt 
any ill effects from so much oscilla- 

"Well j sir," he replies, with a 
smile, " during my thirty-one years 
in the Company's service I have 
only been three weeks on the sick 
list. I consider it a healthy occupa- 
tion, providing the constitution is 
strong and able to stand exposure to all 
weathers. " 

11 What is the worst kind of weather you 
have to contend with ? " I inquire. 

44 Fog, sir, is the worst of alh Snow is 
bad enough, which blocks up the weather - 





glasses, and to see the signals you must 
face the blinding storm ; but in foggy 
weather we can't see them until we arc on 
them. We don't depend entirely upon the 
fog-signals or detonators/ 1 

In reply to my inquiry whether he had ever 
been the unfortunate cause of an accident, 
or ever experienced anything unusually ex- 
citing during his twenty-four years ' career 
as driver, Watson says : — 

** I have never been in any accident, such 
as collisions or running off the track, but I 
regret to say that it has been my mis- 
fortune to be present at seven inquests held 
over the bodies of persons whom I had un- 
avoidably run over. Some of these were 
negligent servants of the Company, while 
others were strangers unlawfully straying 
on the line. At night it is impossible to 
see anybody in danger, but in the daytime 
we keep a sharp look-out, and give a 
warning whistle when necessary. Only 
last week I noticed in the distance ahead a 
smalt boy mischievously throwing stones at 
a * goods * train. He stood in my road, 
unconscious of danger ; I blew the whistle 
as the train rushed towards him, but he 
couldn't get away, and fell back on the 
metals. I knew it was all up with him ; 
and, having quickly stopped the train, I 
went back to look for the body. I was first 
on the spot, but only to find that the poor 
little chap was literally cut to pieces — a 
horrible sight, We were travelling full 


speed when the 
accident occurred, 
and couldn't pull 
up in time to save 
the lad." 

" Besides these 
sad cases, have 
you experienced 
any sensation ol 
fright from narrow 
escapes ? ,T 

41 No, sir, except 
that on thick 
nights it does give 
you a bit of a 
start when you 
find yourself run- 
ning with express 
speed past signals 
set against you. 
Then your heart 
leaps into your 
mouth, and you 
put on the brake 
as quickly as pos- 
sible, This sort of thing makes you feel 
queer at the time." 

Such is the simple record of Watson'? 
life. But a brave heart beats beneath the 
rugged exterior of such men as he, who are 
ever ready to do their duty to the public in 
times of accident, and often risk their very 
lives for the public good by remaining at 
their posts when danger is imminent, 
thereby hoping to avert it. While the 
train is running the driver's whole soul is 
in his work, his attention being entirely 
concentrated upon the engine and the 
signals ahead. This constant strain upon 
his faculties during a long journey is exces- 
sively great t and he feels acutely the serious 
responsibility of his position, well knowing 
that an oversight on his part may cause a 
terrible disaster* 

By this time the arrival of the Scotch- 
man is announced, and we steam into the 
station to be hooked on to the train. With 
a (( Right you are ! " from the guard, and a 
sharp whistle from the engine, off we go 
on our momentous journey, At Watson's 
suggestion, I find a convenient post for 
observation in the corner by the left-hand 
weather-glass ; and, although the view is 
certainly very much circumscribed, the 
position is fairly comfortable, being shel- 
tered from wind and smoke, besides which 
I am out of the way of the men. We are 
not travelling fast yet, as there is a steady 
climb of five miles up a steep gradient (or 




4i bank," as the driver calls it) to Stoke Rox> 
and gradients make all the difference in the 
running of the train. The stoker shovels 
coal into the furnace, and everything is 
done to assist the engine in performing the 
extra work which is now called for. Our 
speed gradually increases. The graceful 
spire of Grantham Church — a conspicuous 
landmark— is soon lost in the rear, as we 
bowl along at thirty -five miles an hour, 
now through a cutting, now under a viaduct, 
and now with a straight road before us. 
The tiny aperture in the distance is the 
entrance to a tunuel, which appears so 
ludicrously small that it seems as though 
the funnel of the engine could not escape 
collision with the arch ; but this delusion is 

at every mile. Corby (eight miles from 
Grantham) is reached in something like 
twelve minutes^ and with a short whistle 
we fly through the little station with a 
velocity that hardly permits us to read its 
name on the board* Still descending the 
incline, our speed increases until Watson 
(desirous, no doubt, of exhibiting the best 
paces of his favourite engine) shouts in my 
ear, u You are now travelling as fast as any- 
one ever did travel, I think ! Seventy-five 
mites an hour // M This is really exciting ; 
one feels exhilarated by such rapid motion, 
the engine leaping along as though endowed 
with life. Oscillation increases with speed , 
and, in order to preserve my balance, I find 
a friendly hook near the weather-glass con- 


quickly dispelled t for now we are rushing 
into the darkness of the subterranean 
passage, and can already see a glimpse of 
daylight at the other end. 

The effect in the tunnel is weird and 
impressive, as the glare of the furnace, 
increased by the surrounding darkness, 
lights up the features of the fireman as he 
replenishes the flames, and illumines the 
cloud of steam and smoke that rushes over 
the train behind us. Out in the open once 
more we quickly reach Stoke Box, the 
summit of the Great Northern route, and 
directly we get over the brow of the hill, 
the train gathers fresh impetus, and away 
we go with a roar and a rattle, past signals 
and telegraph posts with a speed increasing 


venient to hold on by. Away, with a roar 
and a rattle ! No sooner are distant signals 
seen than we are upon them ; no sooner do 
we realise that an object half-a-mile away is 
a wayside cottage than we reach it, rush by, 
and leave it far behind* Another whistle 
announces our approach to Little Bythani, 
and down the hill at a fearful pace to Essen- 
dine, near which is Crowland Abbey, im- 
mortalised in Kingsley's " Hereward the 
Wake." Although I find some difficulty 
in preserving my equilibrium, I endeavour 
to take notes, but under such circumstances 
even the late Anthony Trollope would have 
despaired, accustomed as he was to writing 
in the train, I watch the driver and fire- 
man as they perform their respective duties ; 




Watson, with his hand upon the brake in 
readiness for any emergency, looks earnestly 
for his signals, and the fireman shovels the 
damp coal upon the gleaming furnace 
below. Fresh fuel is frequently required — 

"the fireman shovels the damp coal upon the flaming furnace:" 

a dozen shovelfuls at a time, fairly distri- 
buted, in order to maintain equality of con- 
sumption and regularity of heat. The 
water-gauge must also be watched, and the 
boiler occasionally replenished by raising a 
lever connected with the supply in the 

Away, with a rattle and a roar ! Signals 
are passed every three or four minutes, and 
those at Tallington (the next station) are 
seen by the practised eye of the driver long 
before my untrained vision detects them. 
Watson has excellent sight (an essential 
qualification), for he can distinguish day 
signals at a distance of nearly two miles, 
and the red light three or four miles away. 
Rushing past Tallington Station, we enter 
Northamptonshire and the level country of 
the Fen district ; here we spin along to 
Werrington Junction, and soon observe on 
our left the stately towers of Peterboro 1 
Cathedral, looming grey in the gloaming, 
As the shades of evening close in, the night 

by Google 

signals are lighted, and the coloured illumi- 
nation at Peterboro' Junction looks pretty 
in the distance, but to distinguish our par- 
ticular signal among so many is an intricate 
problem to me. We slacken pace as we 
approach Peterboro', having 
accomplished the twenty- 
nine miles from Grantham 
in thirty-two minutes — 
rather less than a mile a 
minute. From the bridge 
spanning the river we notice 
the picturesque effect of the 
various lights reflected in 
the water, and, again in- 
creasing our speed, quickly 
leave the cathedral town 
behind us. 
The sun has set, and, as 
, the night grows darker, the 
jTpij?- signal - lights gleam more 
brightly. Now we are in 
the county of Huntingdon, 
The little station at Yaxley 
flashes by, and we have a 
level run to Holme — thirty- 
six miles in forty minutes. 
A steep climb of six miles 
to Abbots Ripton gives the 
engine extra work, but it is 
done gallantly, at the rate of 
forty- five miles an hour* At 
Abbots Ripton (where resides 
Lord de Ramsey, one of 
the directors of the Great 
Northern Railway) a terri- 
ble accident occurred in January, 1876. 
The weather was extremely boisterous and 
stormy, the snow falling in large flakes, and 
seriously obscuring the look-out of the 
driver and guards of the train, who declared 
they never before experienced a storm of 
such severity. The Scotch express, due at 
King's Cross at 8.10 p.m., started on its 
up-juurney from Edinburgh, and proceeded 
in safety as far as Abbots Ripton, where a 
coal train was signalled to cross into a 
siding, to allow the express to go by. The 
greater portion of the trucks had passed 
into the siding, when the express came up 
at full speed, and struck the coal train in 
the rear of the engine. The effect was 
disastrous, the engine of the express being 
thrown over and completely disabled, and 
several carriages broken up. One of the 
drivers, accompanied by his guard and two 
or three others, was ordered to go to Hunt- 
ingdon on his engine for assistance ; but 
he had not proceeded fv when the Leeds 
Original from 



express was discerned dashing onwards 
through the blinding storm. It was the 
work of a moment for the driver to sound 
his whistle, in token of danger ahead, the 
guard meanwhile waving his red lamp ; 
but these signals were disregarded, and the 
engine of the Leeds express literally cut its 
way through the tender of the Scotch 
train. The increasing storm, the piteous 
cries of the wounded, and the shouts of 
others anxious to be released from the 
broken carriages were heartrending, while 
the lurid glare of burning wreckage, ignited 
by the furnace fire, produced a scene of 
painful interest never to be forgotten by 
those who witnessed it. Twelve persons 
were killed, among whom was the eldest 
son of the late Mr. Dion Boucicault, 
the well-known dramatic author and actor. 
In the Scotch express were Lord Colville, 
present chairman of the Great Northern 
Railway Company ; Mr. Robert Tennant, 
then M.R for Leeds ; and Count Schouvaloff, 
Russian Ambassador at the Court of St. 
James 1 s f all of 
whom happily 
escaped injury. 
The accident is 
supposed to have 
been caused by a 
blocking of the 
signals with 
snow* Fortun- 
ately for us, no 
danger threatens 
to * night from 
such a cause, for 
the sky is cloud- 
less, and the stars 
shine brightly. 
Another journey 
might afford a 
very different and 
much more un- 
pleasant expe- 
rience ; as t for 
example, in foggy 
or snowy wea- 
ther, or in blind- 
ing sleet, when 
exposure to the 

elements would not be enjoyable, A 
thunderstorm at any time has its disad- 
vantages, but the effect as seen from an 
engine at full speed must be thrilling 
and impressive, when the lightning-flash 
suddenly illumines the country around, 
bringing instantaneously into view each 
feature of the landscape, only to 

Digitized by Gi 

plunge it the next moment into ob- 
scurity , 

Away ! With rattle and roar we speed 
down the bank to Huntingdon ; there, a 
mile off, are the signals and station lights 
— a shrill whistle, and we are upon them, 
they flash by, and we are in the open 
country again* Here we notice a result of 
the recent heavy rains in the overflow of 
the Ouse and consequent submersion of the 
race-course ; but, when bowling along at 
seventy miles an hour* it is not easy to take 
in every detail of this watery scene. In 
the distance ahead a curious light is seen, 
growing larger as it approaches, and looking 
uncommonly like a gigantic flaming squib, 
which presently resolves itself into a passing 
train, whose engine belches forth volumes 
of sparks — quite a brilliant display against 
the dark background. We make such a 
rattle ourselves that other trains rush by 
apparently without a sound, so this onedis* 
appears as mysteriously as it came, like a 
veritable fiery phantom. Now the station 

1 A FAWhlXt; TRAIN'. 

lights at Offord flash by, and wc have accom- 
plished half our journey in excellent time, 
the driveT remarking that " we shall do it 
well to-night. 11 We slacken speed as we 
ascend the slight incline to St. Neots, then 
entering level country in Bedfordshire we 
bowl along to Tempsford and Sandy (the 
residence of the Speaker of the House of 




Common*) — sixty and a half miles in sixty- 
eight minutes. Owing to some repairs to 
the main line at Stratford Bridge Dyke, 
we are unfortunately compelled to shut off 
steam and diverge on to a siding; thus losing 
some five or six minutes, but this delay is 
quickly repaired as we put on an extra spurt 
to Biggleswade and Arlesey. Now we leave 
Bedfordshire for the county of Herts, and 
run up the bank to Hitchin, the signals at 
the junction being soon perceptible. As 
we rush through the station we find that 
we have reduced by four minutes the time 
lost at Stratford Bridge, and have a record 
of seventy- three miles in eighty-six minutes, 
After a stiff climb of four miles to Stevenage 
and K neb worth (the historic home of the 
Lyttons) T away we go across fairly level 
country, through two tunnels, arriving at 
Welwyn Station (eighty- three and a half 
miles) in one hour forty minutes. Having 
climbed the bank over Welwyn Viaduct, 
we accelerate our pace, and quickly reach 
Hatfield, where, but for the darkness, we 
could readily discern the regal mansion of 
Lord Salisbury and the church surmounting 
the hill* We rush through Hatfield Station 
with terrific speed, pass Potter's Bar, and 
enter the county of Middlesex As we are 
nearing the end of our journey, the fireman 
levels the fire to keep it low down, no 
further coaling being necessary. From 

Potter's Bar to Wood Green, a distance of 
eight miles, is a steep down-gradient, and 
we seem to fly through the intervening 
stations and the tunnels at Enfield. When 
the lamps of Hornsey Station are passed, 
we have completed rather more than a 
hundred miles — time, one hour fifty -five 

The distant glare of London** innumer- 
able lights is now visible, and frequent 
whistling announces our speedy approach 
to the metropolis. "It's all over, sir," 
shouts Watson — an intimation that our 
journey is practically finished, and his re- 
sponsibility over for this occasion, In 
Copenhagen Tunnel we slacken speed, the 
signals being against us ; presently all is 
clear ^ off we go through our last tunnel r and 
the fireman, whose task is now at an end, 
sweeps the coal dust from the footplate. 
With steam shut off and the brake in 
action, oscillation gradually ceases, and we 
glide into the brightness of King's Cross 
Station, having accomplished the entire 
distance in two hours and three minutes. 

Thus ended my memorable trip. With 
a friendly " good-night 1 * to Watson and his 
mate, I step on to the platform and out 
into the busy streets, feeling somewhat 
dazed and fatigued, but otherwise none the 
worse for my night ride on the " Flying 
Scotchman. 7 ' 

by Google 

Original from 





ERE I am. in New York ; and, 
as luck will have it t forced 
by circumstances over which 
I have no control to take 
up my abode close to the 
Union Telegraph Station ; 
and worse still, in an attic, in front of 
which the telegraph wires of half the 
world seem to cross. In the daytime 
there is such a disturbance in the street 
that collecting one's thoughts is out of 
the question, and at night the wires moan 
and howl like souls in torment, Even 
a^ I write one of them is beginning to 
whistle. Ten to one it is the thick, fat 
wire just opposite my window, the most 
irrepressible of them all. Yes ; I was 
not mistaken. Now the wretch is hum- 
ming the refrain, " No rest for us by 
night or day," The other wires take up 
the tunc, which seems to amuse the 
signal bell, for it is seized with such 
convulsions of laughter that it begins to 
ring aloud. 

But this is more than lean stand, and, 
drawing up the blind, I fling open the 
window, muttering as I do so, and call 
out into the night : — 

(b Will you have the goodness to be 
quiet out there ? " 

A moment's pause, then the thick 
wire begins to speak : — 

From the German of Karl von 

u Come now, that's rather hard lines ! 
Pray, are we never to enjoy ourselves ? 
The live-long day do we toil for you 
mortals — toil, I repeat, till Fve actually got 
a stitch in my side with the effort, and then 





in the evening you grudge us a little 
recreation ! " 

* 4 Stitch in your side, forsooth ! ' ? cried I, 
11 And do you think 1 can afford to be 
idle ? Within an hour I must knock off 
an article for The Morning Dispatch — some- 
thing new and thrilling ; but while you 
make such a row my best ideas go.' 3 

*' Ideas ! ideas ! " sneered my friend, " As 
if ideas were still needed in the nineteenth 
century ! Nowadays, if you wish to write 
romances, you no longer invent, but ex- 
perience them. I could write volumes from 
the facts that have come under my own 
notice. How many sighs s wishes, and 
hopes have I destroyed T accomplished, and 
buried ! How many great and noble, how 
many small and mean transactions have I 
promoted and prevented ! tT 

'* Well, then t if you know so much," said 
I f mollified, "give me some of your experi- 
ences. I am all ears/' 

"All right/ 1 said the Wire, "I shall 
tell you the little history of Alice Parker 
and George Duff/* 

"What! George Duff? Dear, foolish 
old George, the friend with whom I 
travelled all through Italy, and with whom 
I made the bet in Sorrento that within a 
year he would be a happy husband ! I 
heard afterwards that he had 
lost his heart in America, 
and , with his usual 
vagueness, only be- 
came aware of the 
fact when he was 
back in Europe/ ? 

"The same man/ 1 
nodded the Wire, 
" and it is his story 
you are about to 
hear. I shall give 
you the seventeen 
telegrams relative 
to the affair, exactly 
as they passed 
through my hands. 
But if you are go- 
ing to make use 
of my communica- 
tions for your news- 
paper, you must 
mention no names. 
These are State 

11 Of course 
promised, and 
Wire began its 
follows : — 

A Novel ®f the Day in 17 Telegrams* 
To Parker, Banker, Baltimore, 

From George Duff, London. 
During stay in Baltimore, seized with 
fancy for your daughter Alice. Feel now I 
love her- Cannot live without her. Believe 
Alice reciprocates affection* Am inde- 
pendent. My mother consents. Beg for 
hand of your daughter. If no, answer un- 
necessary. If yes, wire. Shall start directly 
for Baltimore* 

To George Duff, London, 

From Parker, Baltimore, 
Alice loves you. Give my blessing. 


To Parker, Banker, Baltimore, 

From Gkokgh Duff, London. 
Start to-morrow, six o'clock, per passenger 
steamer Britannia. Much love, and many 


Telegram of The Times. 

Passenger steamer Britannia, bound for 

New York, during dense fog on Sunday 

came into collision with the packet-boat 

Sultan (Captain Johnston). Sultan severely 

damaged. Lies in Liverpool 

docks, Britannia sunk. No 

passengers saved. 

so the 





Telegram of The New York Herata. 
The Times report of the sinking of the 
Britannia as usual exaggerated. Passengers 
mostly saved. 


To Parker, Banker, Baltimore. 

From George Ditff, Funchal. 

Wonderful escape- Just landed here. 

Britannia sunk through collision. Clung 


to mast, and drifted whole night on the 
sea. Following morning sailing-ship to 
Cape Town picked me up. Landed me 
at Madeira, Shall come first opportunity to 


To Georgk Di;kk, Funchal. 
From Blackburn, Manager of Bankruptcy 
Court, Baltimore. 
Parker, Banker , no longer exists* Partner 
forged and absconded. Other houses with 
capital shaky* Parker committed suicide* 
Letter from daughter awaits you here, 


To Blackburn, Baltimore, 

From George Duff, Funchal. 
Where is Alice Parker ? 

(Answer paid,) 

Digitized by OOOQ Ic 


To Geokgk Duff, Funchal. 

From Blackburn, Baltimore, 
Vanished ! 

To Mrs, Duff, London. 

From George?, Baltimore, 

Just arrived* No trace of Alice. Says 

in letter too proud to bind me under 

circumstances. Don't return till I find her. 


To George Duff, Baltimore. 

From Johnston, Captain of the Sultan, 

Earnestly implored to return, On your 
evidence in re Britannia depend my honour 
and existence. 

- XII. 
To Mrs, DufFj London, 

From George, Baltimore. 

Duty recalls me. Can find Alice no- 

where. Go to-day to New York. Next 

day to England, per passenger steamer 

Victoria, Am very miserable. 


To George Duff, New York. 
From Blackburn, 

Miss Parker sup- 
posed to be in New 


"mv miserable/ 1 

Original from 




To Mrs. Duff, London/ 

From George, New York. 

Found ! Took advertisement about Alice 
to office. Scream from lady behind counter 
— Alice herself. Just going on steamer 
Victoria to Soy thampton T direct to London. 

Telegram of The Times, 

Fearful disaster ! Incalculable conse- 
quences ! Passenger ship Victoria^ bound 
for Southampton from New York, arrived 
this morning. Shortly before landing an 
explosion took place on board. Four stokers 
wounded. Kitchen maid missing. 
Origin supposed to be a Fenian 
dynamite plot. Two passengers — a 
gentleman and lady — suspected, and 
immediately arrested, 


Telegram of The New York Herald, 
The Times report of the dynamite 
explosion on the steamer Victoria of 
course exaggerated, It appears that 
some samples of American tow had 
caught fire. The suspected passen- 
gers were, with many apologies at 
once set free. 

The telegraph-wire had spoken 
these last words rather faintly. Now 
he ceased entirely. li Not bad," said 
I ; "the adventures of the worthy 
George have interested me deeply. 
Of course, the style of your story 
is a little abrupt, the development 
perhaps too rapid, and the matter ** 

does not seem to me quite original, P**^ 

All the same, your memory is marvel- 
lous. But now for the conclusion. We 
have landed safely in the harbour of 
old England, have sailed round the cliff of 
dynamite, but we arc anxious to know if 
1 he and she f arrive happily in the haven 
of matrimony ? 1T 

A long pause ensued* 

"What, yon are going to leave me in 
the lurch at the critical moment ? I wish 
to know if I have won my bet ? You con^ 
tinue silent. Possibly ttie young people 
have left London, and your lines may not 
reach further. Am I right ? Tt Instead of 
an answer there is a knock at the door, 

il My worthy reporter/ 7 said I, stepping 
to the window, u now I can supply the 
last chapter to your novel, Listen." And 
I read in a loud voice : — 


New York. 

From George Dust, Sorrento. 

Blue sky. Sunshine. Sitting with my 
young wife on the terrace. Glorious honey- 
moon. Give us your blessing. You were right, 
"Well, what do you think of that?" 
asked I, folding up the bit of paper. 

But the Wire still said nothingj and when 
I looked more narrowly I understood his 
silence — he had fallen asleep. 

14 Come in/ 1 A telegraph boy appeared 
and handed me a telegram* I tear it open.* 

It. is from — by Jove, it is 

A "Stop. Hi!" The boy was 

Aj already downstairs, 


by Google 

Original from 

The Queer Side of Things. 

T was just the day for 
balmyj and dis- 
counted by no pro- 
bability of rain and 
hurricane ; in fact, 
we had had a long spell of settled 
weather — nearly a day and a half 
— so we were all in good spirits* 

We had selected a beautiful 
Landing-place on the bank of the 
Thames, and had the additional 
advantage of the shadow of a large notice- 
board — a board declaring the land, river, 
air, sky, clouds, and other articles around 
and above, to be the private property of 
someone or other, and warning strangers 
not to land, fish, breathe, exist, or other- 
wise trespass near the spot* The shadow 
of this board served nicely to keep the 
rays of the sun from the butter and cham- 
pagne, We only regretted that Moozeby 
had not been able to join us. 

We were preparing to sit down to our 
repast, when Pinniger, looking toward the 
11 table," expressed a fear that a mist was 
rising from the ground just at that spot. 
It really seemed so, although the place we 
had chosen for laying the cloth on had been 
selected on account of its apparent dryness. 
Yet there was a small patch of mist, rapidly 
increasing in density ; so, deciding that 
there must be a small morass just there, we 
prepared to move the eatables to another 

Pinniger thereupon stretched forth his 
hand to seize the dish of lobsters, and 
withdrew it with a strange expression 
of face ; he examined his hand : " It's 
the densest mist /ever came across! 1 * he 
muttered ; "I can feel it — feels like cotton- 
wool ! " 

Then Maud Wimble — Pinniger's affi- 
anced—tried to reach the pie, and drew 
back her hand with a little shriek. " What 
is it ? " she cried in a scared way ; il I don't 
like it ! I can hardly get my hand through 

Digitized by G( 

it ! Look, look ! 
It seerns to have 
a shape ! rl 

We had turned 
green now, and 
were standing in a ring, 
staring open-mouthed at 
the patch of fog. It did 
seem to have a shape 

Joe Button, who was a stolid, heavy 
fellow, without any nerves, had another try 
at it ; he tried to get at the butter, and did 
succeed in getting the point of a finger 
some little way in, but drew it back hastily 




and turned green like the rest of us ■ for he 
and we could have sworn that we heard a 
sort of far-off voice crying, from the midst 
of that fog: "Here, I say! A joke's a 
joke— that hurts ! " 

Utterly paralysed, we stood watching 
that lump of fog, It was momentarily be- 
coming more opaque, and more and more 
of the form of a man ; then the form be- 
came rapidly clearer and clearer- — until at 
length there sat Moozeby, solid and alive, 
on the viands. 

u It's all right— don't be alarmed, any of 
you," panted Moozeby, wiping his brow as 
jf after some great exertion; iC there's no- 

tree-stump there, 
the faintest idea 





thing supernatural — IVe only precipitated 
myself — been taking lessons in it. But, 
by Jove, where hare I landed — Why — 
oh, I say, I'm awfully sorry ! u 

With this he got up from the pro- 
visions, the greater part of which were 
ruined ; he had been sitting on the pie, 
the butter, the salad, the coffee-cream, 
the salmon, and the tarts. We up- 
braided him wildly. 

41 I say, I'm awfully sorry ! u he said, 
humbly, •* awfully sorry. The fact is, 
it's very difficult to aim properly when 
you're a beginner* You see, it*s this 
way— when you're distributed in the 
air in the form of elements, it affects 
the sight to a great extent ; and you 
really cannot see exactly where you 
are focussing yourself. You know, I 
eould distinguish the group of you 
here in a vague way, and recognise you 
by your voices ; but I was under the 
impression that I was precipitating my- 


self on that 

really hadn't 

among the eatables- — wouldn't have played 

a trick like that for the world ! You 

know me*" 

We did know him for a good fellow, with 
a mind above jokes of that sort ; so we for- 
gave him. 

b( But, now, what the dickens are we 
going to do for grub ? " we said. 

i{ I'll tell you what," said Moozeby, 4i I'll 
take the Canadian, and paddle to Sonning f 
and get something. Won't be ten 
min fI 

M I say, Bob, if you can precipitate your- 
self, what's to prevent you trying your 
hand at other things — raised pies and 
things? M 

li Gad, I never thought of that ! f ' ex- 
claimed Moozeby, 

"/ wouldn't eat such nasty, u 
supernatural things, for one ! ■ 
Wimbledon, shuddering ; and 
some such feeling, 

l( Well, anyhow, it won't do any harm 
to try. Tell you what, I'll try on a sand- 
wich, and taste it myself, 11 said Moozeby, 
u Just help me wish for it, all you fellows j 
it might be an assistance." 

Fixing his eye steadfastly on the top of 
Wortleworth's head, so that his attention 
should not wander, Moozeby stood per- 
feetly still, grunting at intervals, as if 
engaged in a tiring effort. In a few 
moments a little patch of mist appeared 
over Wortleworth's head, and, in another 
few moments, there lay a freshly-cut sand- 
wich, right on the bald patch. 

wholesome p 
^aid Mrs. 
all had 


'a little patch of mist appeared ovek wqrtle- 






*' Oh, I beg pardon — didn't mean it to 
come there ! " explained Moozeby. He 
took the sandwich ; we all smelt it suspici- 
ously, and Moozeby nibbled a little corner 
of it. 

41 Upon my word, it isn't half bad ! T? he 
said. (l It's ham — not American, I'll swear, 
It's remarkably good. Ill finish it, and 
chance it," 

" Precipitate a dNh of 'em, Bob ; it won't 
be any bigger effort La do a whole dish than 
a single one, will it ? w 

He did it. We each took one, very 
nervously and delicately — -with the excep- 
tion of Mrs, Wimbledon— and turned it 
over, and smelt it. Each sandwich was 

1 * 

beautifully buttered and seasoned, and 



looked most tempting, A notion occurred 
to us : we offered one to Tim, the Irish 
terrier, and he swallowed it, unhesitatingly, 
and did not die in a paroxysm, or catch 
fire ; on the contrary, he licked his lips. 
We nibbled a corner ; we ate those sand- 
wiches, with the exception of Mrs, Wimble- 
don, who declared it was wicked, and a 
u tempting of Providence " (whatever that 
may be) t and shuddered again, 

H Go it, Bob, old man ! TJ we cried in 
chorus. u Let's have some nice things — 
galantines, and so on, Tt 

44 Well, I'll tell you what," said Moozeby, 
14 let's make out a list — a race-hamper list 
— 'before I go to work. It'll be one effort 
for the lot." 

11 Yes, better order 'em all at once " 

" Ssh ! Don't speak of it as * ordering/ 
old chap. Mrs + Besant wouldn't like it if 
she heard : and there's no knowing if she 
does/' said Moozeby* 

Digitized by LiOOQlC 

The affair was a great success. We laid 
out a clean white cloth on the burdens of 
the boat, and Moozeby precipitated on to it 
a very choice and varied collation. There 
were minor blunders : he omitted to pre- 
cipitate a dish for the mayonnaise. The 
wine was excellent — not at all like any one 
gets from a wine merchant ; and the cigars 
had not that aroma of guano characterising 
those we obtain from Havana. 

Beyond thi>, the new way of providing 
things wis remarkably economical ; and 
we all decided to lay in a large stock of 
wine for home use in that way. It is very 
strange to reflect that this useful power, 
exercised with so great facility by H, P. B. 
and our friend Moozeby, should have been 
so long neglected by civilised men ! 
The more one thinks upon it the 
stranger it seems. 

Presently it came on to rain, and 
Moozeby precipitated umbrellas and 
waterproofs* He was invaluable : no 
picnic is complete without a Mooze- 
by. Nevertheless , these articles were 
not such a complete success as the 
viands ; some of them hovered an 
unreasonable time in a nebulous 
condition, and one umbrella really 
only became solid in parts, and let 
the rain through the misty portions 
on to Piuniger and his young lady ; 
but we arrived at the station in good 
spirits — to find our last train gone ! 

On inquiry, we discovered that w*e 
could, by waiting an hour and twenty 
minutes, get home towards morning 
by changing at Clapham-junction, Willes- 




den, and Loughborough -park. We were 
in dismay, when Pinniger was struck with 
a thought — 

4i Why couldn't you precipitate a special 
train , Bob ? " he said to Moozeby* 

Poor Moozeby looked fagged out, and 
said, il Fact is, I don't feel over fresh after 
precipitating all those other things. It's 
a bit of a strain ; and a train's a big thing 
to undertake late in the day — the engine 
alone will take a lot out of me ; but I'll do 
my best/' 

Accordingly, poor Moozeby, after a sip 
of brandy, went and fixed his eyes steadily 
on the line, while we all stood round, star- 
ing eagerly at the same point, The station- 
master, thinking something must be wrong, 
came up and asked if we had lost anything, 
u Sh ! " whispered 
Pinniger hoarsely ; 
*< don't distract his 
attention — you'll 
spoil it," 

So the station- 
master and the por^ 
ters, and young W. 
PL Smith & Sons 
silently joined the 
group, and stared at 
the line too- A 
quarter of an hour 
elapsed, and then a 
grey vapou r bega n 
to gather on the 
line, wavering un- 
certainly ; for fully 
another twenty 
minutes it wavered 
and varied in den- 
sity, and then the 
st at i on - ma s t er bega n 
to grow anxious. 
"Beg pardon — don't want to spoil the ex- 
periment, whatever it may be," he whis- 
pered, " But it won't do to interfere with 
the line in any way — it's against all 

It became obvious that we must let the 
station-master into it ; to attempt to w T ork 
a thing on so large a scale without taking 
him into the affair seemed positively rude ; 
besides which, he might be able to assist 
Moozeby with hints as to the proper con- 
struction of a train. So we explained the 
matter to him. 

The station-master shook his head deci- 
sively, and said it was against rules for 
strangers to place trains on the line ; it 
was obviously to the common danger, par- 

ticularly as the up express was due in 
twelve minutes. 

This was serious ; we advised Moozeby to 
run his nebula on to a siding out of danger, 
and go on with it there — if we could per- 
suade the station-master to sanction it. 

Rut Moozeby was very tired, and got 
flurried over it ; he found that the half- 
solid train would not move, the engine not 
yet having arrived at a working condition, 
so he hastily attempted to precipitate a 
horse to drag it into the siding ; but the 
horse behaved in a foolish manner, too, and 
finally took form with only three legs, one 
of them being filmy. Our nervousness and 
excitement grew intense — the express was 
signalled as having passed a point three 
miles away, and would be upon us almost 

immediately ; in our 
despair we jumped 
down on the line t 
and put our shoul- 
ders to such half- 
solid portions of 
Moozeby \ train as 
we could find — but 
our exertions only 
made a jumbled 
mass of it, owing to 
the nebulous parts 
giving way ; the 
rumble of the ap- 
proaching express 
grew momentarily 
louder ; the station- 
master and the por- 
ters and young W. 
H. Smith shrieked 
to us to come off 
the line ; we scram- 
bled madly on to 
the platform, yelling 
to Moozeby to dissolve his train an sharp 
as he could ; Moozeby gasped and made 
one mighty effort ; the express came 
thundering through the arch a hundred 
yards away ; the station-master and por- 
ters and young Smith were nearly mad, 
and tried frantically to poke away the 
lumps of Moozeby T s train with some poles. 
The express dashed by, scattering the 
pieces of train in all directions, and whirled 
away out of sight* 

Lumps of the scattered train were 
falling about us in every direction, some of 
them upon our heads ; but they were so 
light that an umbrella easily kept them off : 
and we breathed again, for the express had 
escaped undamaged, 






The anger of the* station-master was 
terrible, and he was at first about to give 
us all in charge ; but we soothed him after 
l time, and Moozeby precipitated a diamond 
scarf-pin into his tie \ and we shook hands 
with him, and trudged off towards the 
village to get beds. 

Our path lay by the side of the line ; and, 
when about a quarter of a mile from the 
station, we came upon a nice quiet siding, 
and Pinniger glanced at Moozeby. 

"AD right," said Moozeby, who had re- 
freshed himself after his recent strain with 
half a bottle of champagne and the breast 
of a fowl ; 1( I don't feel so tired as I did, 
and I fancy I might get on better 
now. I was flurried before,' 1 

This time he went to work more 
methodically. We all sat down on 
the waterproofs and the men smoked, 
while Moozeby commenced at the 
engine, to make sure of that at any 
rate. We had decided to limit our- 
selves to an engine and one carriage, 
to save Moozeby as much as possible. 

But Moozeby wasted time and 
strength to begin with ; for, knowing 
but little about engines, he half- 
precipitated a pumping engine, hav- 
ing, as Pinniger remarked, probably 
only ordered "an engine/' without 
stating on the order-form the kind 
of engine required. 

However, Moozeby tried again, 
and presently we had the consolation 

Digitized by GoOgk 

of seeing a magnificent compound, 
leading - bogie, four - coupled loco* 
motive gradually assuming shape ; 
Moozeby was a little irritated on 
seeing this, as such a powerful en 
gine was a w^aste of his strength, but 
he went on with it ; and at length 
he declared it finished* 

Still it didn't look quite right — 
there w^ere parts through which you 
could pass the hand, which we were 
all convinced was not the case in 
an ordinary manufactured engine — 
however, we were glad to get any 

Then Moozeby went to work at 
the carriage, but that came very, 
very slowly, for he was getting ex- 
hausted ; and when it did appear 
he did not seem able to consolidate it 
properly. It would not set. There it 
wasj however, and Thripling stepped 
into it ; but the next moment we 
heard angry words coming from under- 
neath it, and it turned out that Thripling 
had fallen through a part of the floor which 
had not set, on to the permanent way. 

Then Moozeby got in and finished the 
precipitation of the floor of one compart- 
ment, and we all crowded into that ; but 
presently Maud Wimble felt the part she 
was on getting nebulous again, and site 
found herself standing on the ground with 
her head and shoulders in the carriage 
However, Moozeby patched it up again tor 
the time. 

Then we remembered that none of us 
could drive an engine, and poor Moozeby had 




to collect himself once more to precipitate a 
driver ; and here again he forgot to de- 
scribe the particular kind of driver, owing 
to which he found he had precipitated a 
pig- driver, who was helplessly intoxicated 
into the bargain ; but he did precipitate an 
engine-driver at last, who set fairly well, 
except part of one leg, which remained 
cloudy, so that the man had to move about 
by hopping, 

Then we finally got in and waited breath- 
lessly for the train to move. It did move ! 
Very slowly, strangely, and creakily, show- 
ing that there was something wrong ; how- 
ever, that did not matter so long as we 
could get home somehow. We requested 
the driver not to drive fast and recklessly ; 
and he replied that he was not likely to, 
with parts of the boiler like flannel, and re- 
quiring to be tied round with string to 
prevent it bursting. 

That train never set properly ; every 
two or three minutes some part or other of 
it would become nebulous again, the whole 
requiring incessant attention on the part 
of Moozeby who was getting thoroughly 
knocked up, and was losing his power. 

Once the driver's body and legs became 
a cloud ; and he called out to us that he 
couldn't undertake to drive in that con- 

dition ; then th :* end of the carriage 
vanished suddenly into air, letting down a 
row of us on to the permanent way, and 
bruising us considerably. We were any- 
thing but comfortable, for we had to keep 
a very sharp look-out for trains which fre- 
quently came by ; and on the^e occasions 
Moozeby would have to make a wild 
effort and precipitate, in all haste, a siding 
for us to run on to, until the other train had 

At length Moozeby could be kept awake 
no longer , in spite of all we could do by 
pinching and running pins into him \ and 
the carriage, engine, and driver suddenly 
became soft — nebulous- — air ; leaving us on 
the permanent way, many miles from 
London, at two in the morning. 

We were dreadfully angry with poor 
Moozeby at the time — unreasonably so, 
when one considers how much he had done 
for us ; for after all said and done Moozeby 
is a very good fellow at heart, and his 
accomplishment remarkably useful at times . 
particularly when he is fresh and his pre- 
cipitations will set properly. 

It is foolish to attempt such a thing as a 
train, when one is tired ; and, besides, it 
brings discredit on theosophy, and makes 
the uninitiated incredulous about it. 

by Google 

Original from 






by Google 

Original from 






by Google 

Original from 



/ * 


Original from 

by Google 









AT A FRIIKP'S HOUfcfc Q r j ^TlHi CUIft 





Refuse all Imitations of 






Hi* Original ft Firit Manufactured in Great Britain. 

Manufacturer to H.M. THE QUEEN* 
WM. POLSON & CO., Paisley & London, 




> V 


^ " v\\\\\ o* * \ i " ' v//» *** 



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"It fears neither Army nor Navy." 

\ HOSE things used to be called the 
wooden walls of England." 

The scene was the Naval Ex- 
hibition at Chelsea, in the sum- 
mer of 1 89 1. The speaker was a young man, 
and his auditor one of those lithe, bright-haired 
girls one so often sees in this island. 

" And aren't they the wooden walls of Eng- 
land, now?" she said, as a child might ask when 
Noah might be expected in Liverpool with his ark. 

" Not exactly," replied her escort, tenderly ; 
11 they are rather out of style. Come ; I'll show 
what sort of walls we have now," and he led 
her off in the direction of the beautiful models 
of the great steel ships of war. 

The young fellow was right in assuming that 
this country had a big and powerful navy, but 
the chances of war decrease with the prepara- 
tions made to meet it. Besides, the interests 
that would be put to hazard grow constantly 
larger, and nations avoid fighting as long as 

This is a hopeful consideration, and if Eng- 
land had nothing to be afraid of beyond the 
danger of being attacked from abroad, we might 
sleep in peace. But there is an enemy against 
which neither army nor navy is of any avail. It 
defies the gunboats in the Channel and the red- 
coats on the shore, and kills more people than 
are ever likely to fall in battle. 

If we could stop the ravages of this foe we 
should soon be able to surprise our distant 
colonies with the arrival among them of a 
splendid class of our surplus population. 

We allude, of course, to disease. Not to 
epidemics of cholera or influenza, but to diseases 
which are at work year in and year out, in every 
season, carrying off rich and poor alike. Un- 
questionably, the worst of these is the one that 
attacks the digestive system, the one from which 
springs the majority of ailments which go under 
various names, as, for example, rheumatism, 
gout, bronchitis, consumption, the several fevers, 
and others which were formerly, erroneously, 
supposed to have distinct characters, and to 
require distinct treatment. 

Now, however, the best medical authorities 

recognise these ailments as symptoms and out- 
growths of indigestion and dyspepsia, and treat 
them accordingly. In illustration of what 
can be done, we cite a single case. A man 
named Edward Kelly, who resides at 27, St. 
Vincent Street, London Road, Liverpool, having 
previously had perfect health, experienced a 
dull pain in the right side, a bad taste in the 
mouth, furred tongue, loss of appetite, dis- 
coloured skin, unnatural languor and fatigue, 
and what he describes as a " sinking feeling," 
as though the supporting power were exhausted 
beneath him. 

This was in 1887, and he bore it without ob- 
taining relief from the usual medical treatment 
until April, 1890, when one day, when he was 
working in a bonded warehouse, he says, " a 
dreadful pain struck me in the back, and I had 
great trouble in getting through my work. 
" Getting worse," he continues, " I went to a 
doctor, who said it was inflammation of the 
kidneys. He gave me medicine and attended 
me off and on for six months, but with no bene- 
ficial result. He said he could not understand 
how I could keep on with my work. Still, I did 
struggle on, though the disease was wearing me 
out. From a strong, able man, I became thin 
and weak, and was afraid I should have to 
give up my work. Last July, 1890, a Custom 
House officer recommended me to try an ad- 
vertised preparation, entitled Mother Seigel's 
Syrup. I did so, and before I had finished the 
first bottle the pain left my back, and I began 
to digest my food and gain strength. By con- 
tinuing to use this remedy / was soon as well 
as ever in my life. My master, seeing what the 
Syrup had done for me, also took it for indiges- 
tion, with so much benefit that now he always 
keeps it by him. / have no interest whatei>cr 
in testifying thus, and only speak of the tnedicine 
as I found it. n 

Mr. Kelly evidently had a narrow escape from 
Bright's disease, a malady very common among 
all classes in England, and one of the surest 
and most direct products of torpid liver, itself a 
symptom of indigestion and dyspepsia. We 
mention this case not to put money in anybody's 
pocket, but for the sake of the sufferers who 
need help — no vnalttr what ft comes from. 


(""rw^nL'' Original from 



Original from 

by Google 

From thk Italian of the Countess Bice de Benvenuti. 


HAT can be the matter with 
Master Andrea ? " 

41 Ah ! he has not lighted 
the lamp ! " 

il Perhaps he has gone to 

" Or been taken ill" 

" Good heavens ! What if he were to die 
out there all alone ! " 

** Oh ? no ! he can't be dead ! " 

u Let us hope not. It does not do to be 
always thinking of misfortune. n 

"True ; but the light does not appear. 
We must go and find out what's the matter, 1 * 

"It would be impossible to venture out 

14 We must go to-morrow. It is only 
right that some one should go." 

This conversation was taking place be- 
tween a group of fishermen on the coast of 
Rocca marina, their voices rendered almost 
inaudible by the roar of the tempest- tossed 

It was winter, and the night pitch 
dark. All eyes were turned from the sea- 
shore to the spot where rises the majestic 
lighthouse of Isolotto ; for on that late 
hour of night not a gleam of light had bten 
seen shining. 

The lighthouse of Isolotto was not only 
a beacon to warn the mariner of certain 

dangerous rocks which lie beneath the 
waters around that spot ; but it was almost 
a friend, a kind of star of hope to the resi- 
dents of Roccamarina, Hence on that night 
their thoughts were of Master Andrea, the 
keeper of the lighthouse, 

Oti the following morning although the 
sea was calmer and the sky less threatening, 
yet not a sail could be seen on the horizon, 
nor did a single fisherman venture out from 
the shore. 

Two stalwart sailors silently unfastened 
a boat from the port of Roccamarina, 
launched it into the sea and pulled at the 
oars with might and main across the waves 
towards the rock of Isolotto. The distance 
was considerable, and they laboured hard, 
for the waves rose high, and the cold was 
intense. But these difficulties were not 
thought of ; for their whole mind was cen- 
tred on that man who, alone in the midst 
of the sea and perhaps in some dire trouble, 
might be wanting help and even wrestling 
with death. 

A strange and unexpected reception 
awaited them. 

"Who are you ? What do you want? 
Where have you come from ? M 

Such were the questions, uttered in ng 
gentle tones, with which the keeper of the 
lighthouse greeted the brave seamen. 

" w u to mtomti you >" they 



replied, M but. Heaven be praised, you are 
safe ! " 

it Xews of me ! " cried Master Andrea in 
a voice of thunder, " News, indeed ! Are 
you gone mad, to come out in such weather 
merely to ask how I am," 

" Pariiou us, hut you did not light the 
lamps last night, and at Rocca marina people 
were beginning to fear something had gone 

At this point 
Master Andrea, ff 
who had not 
moved, and was 
solely occupied in 
pulling his long, 
black beard, 
should have as- 
sisted his friends 
to come in ; but 
he hesitated r and 
at length came 
slowly forward, 
and with very bad 
grace and undis- 
guised ill-humour 
helped them to 

" So I did not 
light the lamp ! " 
he growled, 
"That is not 
true ; but even if 
it were, is it not 
to for- 
once ? 
that I 
for in- 

drink a good draught of wine before we 
return/' , 

So saying, they resolutely leaped on to 
the rock, fastened their boat, and entered 
the little room which served Master Andrea 
as a kitchen. The latter slowly began to 
light a small fire, then drew out a bottle of 
wine, uncorked it, and set it down on the 
table with 

two glasses, without uttering a 


get for 
were ill t 
stance. As for 
the rest, you are 
welcome t o 
think what you 
please ; I won't be 
troubled with 

The two good 
seamen of Roc- 
camarina were 
perfectly dumb- 
founded at this 

welcome. However, from motives of prud- 
ence, they made no reply to Master Andrea, 
But when he added, u It will be better for 
you to return home ■ I have no need of 
you," they both resented his language. 

u We shall not return at once, 1 * they said, 
in a loud voice. u If you are so determined 
to order u< away, we prefer to rest a while 
and warm ourselves at a good fire, and 


In silence the 
bottle was drank, 
the seamen 
warmed them- 
selves as well as 
they could while 
the bits of fire 
lasted, and then f 
exchanging a few- 
words in a low 
tone, they both 
rose to go, merely 
observing aloud 
that the sea had 
calmed down. 

Whilst they 
withdrew, mut- 
tering that Master 
Andrea was the 
grumpiest being 
in the world, and 
that it was only 
losing their time 
to trouble about 
him, the keeper 
of the lighthouse 
stood on the far- 
thest point of the 
rock, and followed 
the retreating 
boat with his 
eyes. He was well 
pleased with him- 
self, and perfectly 
satisfied, and he 
pulled vigorously 
at his great black 
beard, whilst a 
malicious smile 
passed across his 

1+ So, so ! " he said to himself u So they 
think I am incapable ! But what do I care 
what ihey think? 1 have succeeded in my 
scheme, and that is enough." 

When the boat was well out of sight he 
descended the stairs } quickly lifted the 
latch of his hedrnoin, yvntly opened the 
door, and i^Qg^l fl^iHt^n attentively. 




Master Andrea was one of those unfortu- 
nate beings whose life had known no smile. 
He had been brought up in idleness, yet 
without love, the child of a selfish, capricious 
mother, and a father who only knew how 
to grow rich, and was thoroughly heart- 

By the humble dwellers of Roccamarina, 
little Andrea was called from his childhood 
44 Master Andrea," for he was the son of 
Master Antonio, who would, as an only son, 
come to inherit the busy blacksmith's forge 
on the shore, which yielded a good income 
with small trouble. In a word, he was a 
lad who was much envied, because it was 
known that, besides the forge, there was a 
good house and various farms which his 
father was purchasing in the neighbour- 
hood, and that some day he would be the 
owner of some thousand lire. 

How it happened is not known, but one 
day Master Andrea, who was in the city 
studying as a gentleman, was summoned in 
all haste to Roccamarina. It was two years 
since he had been home, and he now learnt 
for the first time that his mother had died 
some months previously, without remem- 
bering him, or even leaving him a message, 
and that his father had just been drowned 
in the sea. He also found that the vaunted 
wealth of his father had mysteriously 
dwindled away, and that nothing remained 
to him but the duty of paying off his debts. 
The forge was sold, the beautiful house 
fared the same fortune, and the farms one 
by one all passed into other hands. 

Two years after this catastrophe, Master 
Andrea, who had been always reputed a 
gentleman of means, found himself merely 
the owner of a small vineyard. 

Averse to taking a position less than that 
of a proprietor, it seemed to him hard to 
go and seek work. Hence when he made 
out his calculations and reckoned that out 
of this little plot of land he could obtain 
his daily bread, he said to himself : " Well, 
I am alone ! I may have only dry bread 
and mines tr a to eat, but I shall be indepen- 
dent." And he proceeded to shut himself 
up in his small estate, fully intending to 
turn agriculturist. 

He was covetous, and of a naturally 
melancholy character. He saw all things 
in a dismal light, and though still youthful, 
yet had no affections, and no hopes, not 
even a loving remembrance of bygone days, 
to cheer him. His parents had spent their 
married life in quarrelling with one another, 

and had often made him the innocent 
victim of their ill-humour. They had 
rendered his home perfectly unl^arable, 
and therefore when he found himself far 
from them, and alone, he experienced a 
sense of peace and rest. And when in 
course of time this enforced coldness of a 
desolate hearth seemed to weary him, he 
had only to evoke the memories of the sad 
scenes he had witnessed in his childhood 
fo;* his empty hearth and desolate existence 
to appear to him not only tolerable, but 
even pleasant. 

But he was truly lonely. Not a relative, 
not a friend of the family had he to care 
for him ! His parents had formed no 
friendships ; and he himself knew not how 
to win them. The fact of his being better 
educated and in easier circumstances than 
the miserable fishermen of Roccamarina 
seemed to place a barrier around him ; that 
talkative, active population, engaged in 
fishing and in traffic, and always in good 
spirits, could not understand how a young 
man should not draw his fellow-beings 
around him, and wrestle with his evil 

Master Andrea, from a wish to be left at 
peace, repelled all social intercourse, with- 
out taking into account that a man who 
lives selfishly for himself may free himself 
of many sorrows and trials, but that he 
also deprives himself of sharing the joys of 
human existence. He would not marry, 
fearing to bring trouble upon himself, and 
because he judged all women undesirable 

44 Ah ! you will soon experience the joys 
of a family ! " he would exclaim bitterly, 
whenever the bells of Roccamarina merrily 
announced a wedding ; and he truly felt 
compassion for the pair, although he did 
not know them. 

In this way, leading a colourless, 
monotonous existence, he reached his for- 
tieth year. He tended his vineyard, and 
read the newspapers and books with which 
a fellow student regularly supplied him. 
But the vineyard responded badly to his 
assiduous care, and left him almost destitute ; 
and books and newspapers no longer satis- 
fied the cravings of his existence. The 
latter spoke to him of the needs of a social 
revolution, of the cruelty of the wealthy 
classes, of the inertness of the poor, and 
depicted the world in unreal colours ; and 
while assuming to care for the good of the 
people, instilled into the masses hate and 
distrust, rather than peace and love. 



the sta'Axd magazine. 


He became weary of himself, of his vine- 
yard, and more so of the world from which 
he lived removed. One day it was rumoured 
that the aged keeper of the lighthouse of 
Isolotto had died/and that a substitute was 
wanted. In his present frame of mind it 
seemed to him that it would be a desirable 
thing to go and live there in the midst of 
the sea, with his pipe, his books, and his 
papers. To those who said to him in- 
variably, il Ah t Master Andrea, you'll soon 
see what a charming life that i*! " he would 
reply, coldly, that it was a matter of indif- 
ference where he lived. Nevertheless, he 
felt vaguely that a change was coming in 
his life, if no more than the new sensation 
that ho had a daily duty to perform- — a 
lamp to light ! He sought and obtained 
the post, and to Isolotto he went. 

For several years he lived contentedly, 
speaking to no one save once a week, for a 
few minutes on Sunday mornings, when 
the sailors brought him his provisions ; 
and during this long term he had never 
omitted to light the lamp, except on the 

Digilized by wiOOQIC 

night when the fishermen 
of Roccamarina had so 
anxiously watched the sea 
and asked one another, l * Is 
Master Andrea dead or 

None of these anxious 
watchers could have guessed 
what unaccustomed thing 
it was that had happened 
to the keeper of the light- 
house of Isolotto. 


Two days previously, 
whilst the furious waves 
lashed the rock of the light- 
house as though it would 
be dashed to pieces, Master 
Andrea had been awakened 
in the middle of the 
night by the unusual sound 
of a human voice — a weak 
cry, which seemed close to 

He rose hurriedly, and 
listened with attention. He 
descended to the platform, 
but he could see nothing. 
For a moment he thought 
he must have been dream- 
ing ; but no, that was not 
possible* Some one must 
have cried for help, thinking to save him- 
self upon that rock, to which the light had 
guided him. 

Master Andrea grew anxious. " Who's 
there ? w he shouted. He seemed to hear 
a sigh. Again he listened ; and then 
determined to examine the rock. Lantern 
in hand, he hurried round it, and, to his 
surprise, discovered on a slant a child 
lying drenched to the skin, and to all 
appearance dead. He hacrteen cast up by 
the storm. 

li Was it indeed the storm?" he asked 
himself, 44 No/ 1 he thought, 4 * some one 
must have placed him there for safety— his 
father or his mother ; bul whoever had 
done so had disappeared — had, no doubl, 
been drowned/' 

An hour later the little one was lying in 
the bed of Master Andrea, well warmed 
and wrapped in blankets, and was slowly 
recovering consciousness and vital heat. 
He turned round with a sigh, opened his 
eves, and looked up, saying in a weak voice, 
44 Papa ! i} A hird tenderly stroked his 





* % 

brow, and mutely led him to believe that 
u papa " was really near him. 

For the rest of the night and during the 
whole of the next day Master 
Andrea never quitted thechild* 

" He must be feverish, 1 ' he 
cried, as he saw the little form 
toss and throw the clothes off 
his bed. 4 * Oh t heavens ! what 
if he were to die here amid the 

I H 

waves ! 

This apprehension seemed 

to give him a strange dis- 
couragement. His heart beat 

anxiously, and he suffered 


"No!" he cried, "I shall 

not let him be moved. I wish 

him to live and recover. I 

will save him ! f1 

Wrapping the child up, he 

took him on his knee and 

nestled him to his breast as a 

tender mother would have 

done. A new sensation had 

come over him. That day he 

forgot the world, he forgot 

himself, and at night forgot to 

light the lamp ! 

In the morning the unusual 

noise of oars, announcing the 

approach of a boat, broke upon 

his abstraction. He stood up, 

sorely agitated. Might they 

not be coming to claim the child and take 

him a way ! A thousand voices seemed to 

be whispering within him — Do not let him 
be taken away/ he belongs to you — he is 

your treasure -trove ! 

Hence t when he descended to meet his 
visitors he received the in with the gruff 
reception already described. And scarcely 
had he freed himself of his unwelcome 
guests than he raij back hurriedly, as though 
he had escape* some danger. 

The child slept soundly. On beholding 
lhal little, fur curlv head pres-ing the 
pillow of his bed. Master Andrea experi- 
enced a sudden feeling of intense joy, and 
he smiled, perhaps for the first time \\\ hi* 

A few days later, the child, whom we 
shall call Carletto, had quite recovered, and 
formed a striking contrast, with his fair 

with the nimble little trotter to show him 
how he lit the lamp, and cleaned it, and 
put it out. He took Carletto on ^is knee 


and told him stories. He went almost 
without food in order that his pet should 
have the best of his allowance. Yet all this 
afforded him a new pleasure. And what 
of his anxiety to keep him concealed at any 
sacrifice ? Ah ! had the sailors who every 
Sunday morning brought his weekly pro- 
visions, and who landed on the rock of 
Isolotto, so much as suspected the existence 
of a child ? But this fact Master Andrea 
was resolved upon keeping a secret, and 
thus he preferred to suffer hunger rather 
than ask for an increase of provisions, lest 
the sailors should demand the reason why. 

For many months all went well. Master 
Andrea fasted without any ill effects, and 
from being selfish and moody he became 
chatty and merry. 

Only once a week was he inexorably 
severe with Carletto. On Sunday morn- 

winsome face of a three-year-old infant, to ings he used to lock him up in the highest 

the sombre, black-bearded man whom he *tage of the turret and refuse to release 

so charmingly persisted in calling " Papa. 1 ' him until the boat from Roecamarina was 

There had commenced a new life for well on its return. During the rest of the 

Master Andrea. He ran up and down stairs week Cariettowas his tyrant, his idol, his 




joy, his very life* Atid as the possession of 
a precious thing induces the conviction that 
the possessor has a right to it, so did Master 
Andrea after six months had elapsed live at 
peace, without misgivings. 

But one Sunday his visitors thought they 
perceived a rosy little face flattened against 
the highest window of the tower, 

u I fancy I see a child's face ! v said one 
of the sailors, 

i4 Yes," replied the other, H it ts a child's 
face ! T1 

" Aha ! so Master Andrea has a child up 
there ! * 

(1 Won't we chaff him about it ! Tt 

Both the seamen, as soon as they saw the 
keeper, commenced to chaff him about the 
child. But Master Andrea turned deadly 
pale ; he trembled from head to foot, and 
made incoherent replies, until at last he was 
forced to tell the whole truth. How gladly 
he would have strangled those two impor- 
tunate gossips ! Yet when they listened to 
the story, thev became serious in their turn. 
Then they told him in reproachful tones 
that a poor lady from the neighbouring 
village passed day and night upon the shore 
stricken with grief, and awaiting the return 
of her husband and her child, who had gone 
to visit some relatives along the coast, and 
who had never returned. Carletto was, no 
doubt, the child of this sorrowing mother. 
Why had Master Andrea kept the affair so 
secret? Why? did he perchance think 
that the child had fallen from the clouds ? 
Did he not think that it might have a 
mother ? Or did he judge that it was no- 
body's child ? 

Master Andrea heard 
all these reproaches in 
mute dismay. He kept 
his eyes upon the ground, 
and seemed as though 
he had turned suddenly 
to stone. 

At length he looked 

14 Take him 
he said, in a 

away I 
ow, husky 
voice. il I did not think 
he had a mother. I do 
not wish to keep him 
from her, I could not ! 
Quick ! return and tell 
the lady that her child is 
safe. No ! stay !■ — take 
him to her at once ! " 

Slowly, sombrely, like to one who com- 
plies with a duty that entails an immense 
sacrifice, he went up to seek Carletto, For 
a few minutes he kept him in the room. 
He took him up in his arms, he smoothed 
his little head, he clasped him to his bieast 
and kissed him passionate ly, and clipped a 
curl of his light hair. Then, somewhat 
consoled by the tears shed by the child on 
parting from him, he careruffy placed him 
in the boat. 

When the boat was quite lost to view, 
he went indoors, and resolved to forget the 
whole adventure. He gathered together his 
books and newspapers, which had been of 
late sorely neglected, and sat down to read. 
All to no purpose. They seemed to tell 
him of the march of society, they spoke to 
him of a future inevitable social revolution, 
and in alarm he cried, " What will become 
of Carletto ? " 

Unable to repress the yearning of his 
heart , he would daily stand for hours look- 
ing towards the shores of Roccamarina. 
On all sides he was surrounded by the 
immensity of the ocean. 

He felt he could no longer live " in the 
midst of the sea*" 


TkU months have passed. Master Andrea 
is no longer the keeper of the lighthouse of 
I sol otto. 

He affirmed that living in the midst of 
the sea did not agree with his health ; but 
the fishermen of Roccamarina declared that 
he longed to have his dense black beard 
pulled by the chubby 
hands of little Carletto. 
Master Andrea lives 
in his paternal house 
tending the vineyard ; 
but he is not alone. He 
has taken in the sorrow- 
stricken widow and her 
child, and labours day 
and night to support 

He is perfectly re- 
signed to his lot when 
he hears himself called 
44 Papa " by the darling 
little fellow who, M in 
the midst of the sea, 11 
taught him how sweet 
it is to follow the com- 
mands of love. 

Original from 

Illustrated Interviews. 


HERE is probably no name 
better known in the world 
uf literature and learning, and 
certainly no figure more 
familiar in the streets of the 
Scotch capital, than John 
Stuart Blackie. There is always much 
combined curiosity and speculation regard- 
ing the life and habits of the man who has 
won fame within the limits of his own room 
and the surroundings of his family circle. 
It is from a distinctly homely point of 
view that I would talk about Professor 
Blackie. I spent some time with him in 
Edinburgh, and the sum and total of his 
characteristics seemed to be the very per- 
sonification of refined culture t hearty and 

honest opinion, and unadulterated merri- 
ment. He will quote Plato one moment, 
dilate on the severity of the Scottish Sab- 
bath the next, and then with lightning 
rapidity burst forth into singing an old 
Scotch ballad that sets one's heart beating 
considerably above the regulation rate. He 
shook hands with me, and then commenced 
to sing. He told me of his career, and 
sandwiched between his anecdotes snatches 
of song and pithy quotations ; and so it went 
on all through the day* If he is worried 
fur a sentence, or troubled for a rhyme, 
he walks about the room humming. " J 
am a motive animal, 1 * he says. Sometimes 
he will sit down at the piano in the draw- 
ing-room at night, and the music tempts 

Fnm a Photo, bg] ) **bVB£&QR blacki* IK his. ^WPpr! y y f, r jutl f LI If A kj C * K " M * *** — 



the Muse. Again, when rhymes are rare, 
he will make an excursion into the heart of 
some; glorious glen, or try the mountain 
path, and on his return he brings a poem 
with him, which is immediately transferred 
to paper And this, be it remembered, is 
the doings of one of the fathers of Scot- 
land j who will enter upon his eighty-third 
birthday in July, 

1 found him sitting at his table in one of 
his studies. The table is just by the 
window looking into the garden. He wore 
a long blue coat, picturesquely fastened 
round the waist with a red silk sash. He 
had on a very broad linen collar, with a 
long black cravat, loosely tied, negligently 


v$u<u\/ iAj 






hanging down. On his head was a fine 
broad -brimmed Panama straw hat, an 
excellent assistance to the retention of good 
sight ; he has never worn a pair of specta- 
cles in his life. Strange to say, too, until 
the morning of my visit, he has needed no 
medical advice for over thirty years, He is 
patriarchal in appearance, with classical 
features, and long pure white hair which 
reaches to his shoulders. He has all the 
vitality of a young 
man, A trip alone 
to Constantinople 
at the age 
eighty - two is a 
good record. He 
attributes his ro- 
bust health to the 
fact that he has al- 
ways worked and 
lived j read and 
thought, on a 
system. He rises 
at 7-30 and breaks 
fasts. The morn- 
ing is occupied in 
work and corre- 
spondence. The 
open air claims 
him every day for 
two hours before 
dinner, and Mor- 
pheus for an hour 
after the midday 
meal. No hard 

work after nine. Unless he has a lecture or 
other engagement j the evening finds him 
playing a game of backgammon with his 
wife, and he opens the door of his bed-room 
as the clock is chiming twelve. System 
governs every hour of the day, and two un- 
approachable mottoes guide every moment 
of his life. You cannot receive a letter from 
Professor Blackie without finding his motto 
penned in Greek characters in his own 
handwriting in the left-hand corner of the 
envelope. He puts it in the corner of every 
envelope he finds about the place, his ser- 
vants' included. " Adopt it,' T he says, i4 and 
it will turn earth into heaven, it will 
revolutionise society in the twinkling of an 
eye," His motto is, " Speak the truth 
in love n (Ephes, iv* 15), and he points 
out that the Greek verb means acting 
as well as speaking. The second motto 
is, ypkvxh tcl jttiAdj^AU noble things 
are difficult to do." 

We went from room to room. The 
drawing-room is a beautiful apart- 
ment. The walls are of quiet blue, picked 
out in gold, in harmony with the crimson 
plush curtains which hang at the windows, 
and the green plush furniture. The fire- 
place is massive and striking. It is of Indian 
workmanship, exquisitely carved — as, in- 
deed, are all the fireplaces throughout the 
house, for it was formerly occupied by Sir 
William Hunter, an Indian magnate. The 
photos are countless, and are everywhere. 



[ EUvM ,t Fnf. 



From a Ph&io bg) 


[Elliott 4 Frir. 

Here is the late Cardinal Newman — a pre- 
cious reminiscence of the day when he was 
created Cardinal, at which ceremony Pro- 
fessor Blackie was present. Here again are 
.Gladstone, John Morley, the late Count von 
Moltke, the German Emperor, Sir John 
Millais — every one autographed. Here, too, 
is an excellent portrait of Browning, with 
an inscription on the back — t4 This testifies 
that I have spent a delightful morning 
through the goodness of dear Blackie. May 
the pleasure be conferred on me at no dis- 
tant time. May, 1885." Here is a portrait 
of Miss Mary Anderson. Fifteen years ago 
the Professor wrote to Miss Jennie Lee that 
u the stage had more influence than the 
pulpit "—hence many theatrical reminis- 
cences are visible about the house. Look 
in this small volume, and you will find a 
couple of New Year's cards from Henry 
Irving. A small album on a table close at 
hand is highly valued by its owner. It con- 
tains simple cartes de risite of some of the 
most eminent men of the century. The 
first place is given to the late Cardinal 
Manning — he has penned his autograph — 
and then in quick succession come the 
features and signatures of such men as Sir 
David Brewster, Sir J. Noel Paton — with a 
child on his shoulders, a little one who is 
now Dr. Noel Paton, the physiologist 
— the late Dagg Ramsay, Dr, Guthrie, Sir 
J. Y, Simpsa^—Vho discovered chloroform 
—Norman McL^d, the Duke of Argyll, 

Lord Shaftesbury, 
Professor Faraday, 
John Bright , and 
Charles Kingsley. 
There arc a num- 
ber of pictures of 
the Professor him- 
self ; two just at 
the far end of the 
room are produc- 
tions of the old 
black -paper -and- 
scissors process, 
and very cleverly 
are they cut, 

On a small easel 
stands a medal- 
lion, in a plush 
frame, by Mrs/D. 
O. Hill, a sister of 
Sir Noel Paton t 
who executed the 
Livingstone statue 
in PrinceVstreet. 
Many are the por- 
traits of cats and dogs, for Mrs, Blackie 
is very fond of these domestic pets. An 
excellent picture of Goethe^ at the age of 
thirty, is pointed out to me. The room, 
too, is rich in old china, some of which 
belonged to Wordsworth and Lord 

A bowl, once the property of the late 
Dr. Chalmers, stands on a cabinet near the 
door. This little rosewood receptacle con- 
tains a wealth of interest* It has on its 
shelves a copy of every work which the 
Professor has written* As each new work 
is issued so it is added. The cabinet is called 
a The Shrine/' Amongst the water-colour 
paintings is a small text painted in the 
midst of autumn leaves and blackberries. 
It is only a simple effort, and does not 
measure six inches square. Yet when Ruskin 
saw it he exclaimed, "That's the finest 
picture in Edinburgh," 

4i Yel/' said Professor Blackie, as we 
crossed to the window and looked out upon 
the Corstorphine Hill, with its grand fir 
trees, and strained our eyes to catch a view 
of the distant hills of Fife — "yet Ruskin, 
who was a man of deep and intense feelings, 
would lift you up in delightful imagination 
as easily as he would drop you again to the 
ordinary level of life. Ruskin was a small 
edition of Carlyle— but he was a delicate 
and dainty edition. I will talk of Carlyle 
by and by. ..Well, pome forty years ago, I 
was walking with Ruskin down PrinceV 




i .* .' 

JVoffl a PfmiA. fr] 


[Elliott i Vnt 

street, and he was looking up at the old 
town which rises high before you. 

11 * When I walk along this grand street,* 
he said, ' I am always glad when I come 
to the cross streets, for then I look from the 
Works of man to the works of God.' 

41 This remark no doubt was justified by 
the general tameness and monotony of the 
street architecture not only in Edinburgh, 
but in London , at the time when the new 
town of Edinburgh w r as built. 

<( * But/ said I f * have you no eye for those 
palatial structures which are now rising all 
along the street to vary the monotony of 
the original three-storied houses ? TT 

" i No/ said he, * I hate high houses/ 

" ( Why? 1 said I. 

u * Because/ said he, ' they are bad for 
people with rheumatic legs ! ' 

11 Either this was a joke, or it showed a 

certain confusion of the ethical and the 

a&sthetical which sometimes seems to mar 

the soundness of his judgment in matters 

' of art/ 1 

We were standing at the window, and 
for a moment, before going through the 
other rooms of the house, Professor Black ie 
remembered something regarding some of 

the men whose portraits we had just glanced 
at. There was Dr. Guthrie, 

"He was an intimate friend of mine/ 1 
said the kindly Professor ; 1( a splendid 
humorist, and a true Scotchman, He over- 
flowed with humour. One Sunday he had 
been up at Inverness assisting at the Sacra- 
ment. On the Monday there w p as a meet- 
ing, and the Doctor happened to be 
particularly merry. There was one man in 
the front seat who eyed the Doctor ivith 
great gravity, and as he gave out joke 
after joke, his face became graver still. 
When the meeting was all over, he went 
up to Guthrie with a fearfully solemn face, 
and said, ' Ah ! Dr. Guthrie, Dr, Guthrie, if 
it hadn't been for the grace of God ye 
might have been a splendid comic actor ! ' " 

I was now looking at John Bright. 

"I lived at Oban in the summer season," 
continued Professor Blackie, "and John 
Bright lodged at TaynuilL It was one 
day when sitting in John Bright** chair 
at the inn that I wrote the two sonnets 
to him/ 5 And he reads out with fine 
dramatic effect the two beautiful poems 
which are familiar to all students of his 

M Ah ! that portrait is of Norman Mac- 
Leod. He told me a capital story once, 
which well illustrates the severity with 
which the Scotch people regard the Sabbath. 
The church in Skye is some fifteen or 
twenty miles from the parish, and one bright 
and glorious summer day a grave old elder 
and a young man of happier inclinations 
set out to walk this distance. As it was 
Sunday, they walked on for some miles 
cither without speaking a word to each 
other. At last the younger man had to 

" b It ? s a verra fine day/ he observed 

" The old elder looked at him, and with 
a gravity sufficient to silence anybody, re- 
plied, i Yes, it is a fine day ; but is this a 
day to be talking about days ? ' Tt 

Professor Blackie leaves me for a moment, 
and as I sit down in a recess by the window 
I turn over in my mind his own ideas of the 
observance of the Scotch Sabbath. He says 
frankly that the good people of the High- 
lands are too strict — much too strict, though 
he does not question for a moment the 
sincerity of their convictions. He believes, 
as the ancient Greeks did, that the body, 
which is the temple of the soul, should have 
as much care bestowed upon its culture as 
is bestowed cm the spiritual part of our 




nature. He would 
have us love 
physical recrea- 
tion more, but he 
would not have 
us love psychical 
recreation less, 
You wilt find him 
in his pew on a 
Sunday, but he 
has not hesitated 
to play croquet on 
the same day. His 
soul called for de- 
votion, his body 
for recreation. 
Only half an hour 
ago, soon after I 
had shaken hands 
with him, he told 
me an anecdote of 
himself and the 
Sabbath. Some 
years ago he was 
lecturing in Glas^ 
gow on a Sunday. His subject was the 
u Philosophy of Love," and he directed the 
attention of his hearers to the love-songs of 
Scotland, In his fervour he burst out 
singing a Scotch ballad, 4l Let us go to 
Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie oh I Tt It had an 
electrical effect upon his hearers, but oh ! 

Frwn a Phato, 6#] 


[ F! \ia n £ Fry, 


the shock, the terrible shock it occasioned 
on the morrow ! A few days afterwards he 
received an anonymous caricature of him- 
self. It represents a certain one — shall he 
be mildly be referred to its Mephistopheles? 
— carrying off the good Professor on hii 
back at a high rate of speed. It is here 
reproduced for the first time. 

11 Come along/' cries a kindly 
voice. " I just had to answer a 
letter I always answer my own 
letters, and never use postcards. I 
always call the letters I receive the 
four B's — Business, Blethers, 
Bothers, and Beggary/' 

The hall is very fine. The balus- 
trades are of polished oak. Near 
the fireplace is an old oak cabinet 
in which is cut "R. B,, lyoq/ 1 A 
companion cabinet is on the other 
side. These contain all the letters 
and papers of Professor Blackie — a 
bio/Taphieal store, By the door is 
a fine oil painting of Mrs, Black ie T s 
father — James Wyld, of Gilston, 
and here, again, a canvas which 
chronicles the face of Oliver Crom- 
well One of the busts in the, 
hall is that of John Wilson (Chris- 
topher North)* A fine cabinet is 
loaded with china, and close by the 
entrance to the dining-room is a 
convenient receptacle for walking 
sticks*, I counted them. Professor 




From a Photo, ty] 


Blackie has twenty such aids to pedes- 
trian ism. 

The dining-room has sonic excellent 
reproductions of Van Dyck and Rubens, 
More old china is neatly set out on an oaken 
sideboard ; the ferns are fresh and green at 
the window ; and above a pair of vases 
on the mantelpiece — filled with peacocks' 
feathers, which tells that superstition is not 
part and parcel of the household — is a 
grand picture of Professor Blackie standing 
in a Highland glen with his plaid about his 
shoulders. It was painted bv James Archer, 

Leaving the dining-room, one passes on 
the stairs which lead to the trio of studies, 
reproductions of the old masters, pictures 
of Lady Martin, Sir Walter Scott, an old- 
time print of Burns in an Edinburgh 
drawing-room, and a portrait of Carlyle. 

rt Are the songs of Burns as popular as 
ever ? " I asked. 

M No, Scotch songs are not so popular, 1 ' 
was the reply, " Burns is popular with the 
masses, I find it very difficult to get ladies 
in the upper circles to sing Scotch songs, 
The upper classes are corrupted in this 

direction. Corruption begins at 
the top — I say that a* a philoso- 
pher, We are becoming less and 
less Scotch, and more and more 
Anglicised, Why, it is hard to get 
a servant girl to speak real Scotch. 
Scotch songs ! Compare your 
English and German songs with 
the songs of the Highlands. The 
Scotch beat them hollow for variety 
and character. Every Scotch song 
is a picture and a drama, a dramatic 
scene with natural scenery*" 

We had reached the studies ; 
there are really three of them, and, 
together with other books about 
the place, they contain some seven 
thousand volumes, comprising the 
best modern Greek library in 
Britain. Each of these three cor- 
ners is interesting. One of them 
is used by Dr. Stodart Walker, a 
nephew of Professor Blackie ; for 
Professor Blackie has no children t 
and Dn Walker lives and learns 
with him. In this room are capital 
photos of Professor Grainger 
Stewart (the Queen's physician in 
Scotland), Professor Rutherford, 
and Dr. R J. A + Berry, Mr. 
Motley, Mr. Ruskin, and others. 
The study which is more parti- 
cularly used by the Professor is separated 
from the drawing-room by folding doors, 
from which hang great curtains. There 
is little in it save books, but one notes a 
bust of Mrs, Dobell, a great beauty, the 
wife of the poet ; a bust as a young man 
and a statuette of a later period of Pro- 
fessor Blackie ; and one of Goethe on the 
mantelboard, with portraits of Mr. Cunliffe 
Brooks, Mr. H* C Reid, J/P M and Mrs. 
Blackie surrounding it, and a very success- 
ful painting of the Professor by Mr, J. H. 
Lorimer, R.S.A. Then a cosy chair was 
pointed out to me by the fire, and I sat 
down and listened, 

"I was born at Glasgow in July, 1809/' said 
Professor Blackie, walking about the room, 
ib and at the age of three went to Aberdeen. 
My father was a Border man, a Kelso lad, 
and was the first agent for the Commercial 
Bank of Scotland in Aberdeen, where it 
started in 181 l I went to school at Aber- 
deen — Aberdonians have produced the best 
Latin scholars in Scotland, I have to admit 
to being twice flogged by my father. One 
chastising was for telling a He. My aunt 
insisted on pouring down my throat some 





From a Phtio. fy) 


[Elliott <t F* g 

broth which I did not like. I didn't ga to 
school, but went and sulkily hid myself. I 
said that I had been to school. 1 was flogged. 
The second occasion was for calling a servant 
girl names. I was flogged for that, and quite 
right too. 

"As a boy I was always antagonistic to 
school fights — pugilism had no fascination 
for me, I well remember a lad, over some 
small squabble, saying to me, * Will you 
fight me?' ' No/ I replied ; « but I'll knock 
you down, T and immediately did it with great 
ap p lause , I we n t to college a 1 1 wel ve - I wo n 
a scholarship there for Latin, but as the gift 
was intended for poor people I resigned it. 
My principal pastime in those days was 
golf, which we used to play on the Aber- 
deen links, I remained at college until I 
was fifteen, when I went to Edinburgh, 
where I was for two years attending a 
special class under Professor John Wilson ; Jt 
and in those days, Professor Blackie told 
me, he was working out his moral life. 
This disturbed his studies, as he gave his 
whole thoughts to devotional medita- 
tion. When it came to the distribution of 
prizes John Wilson told him that he 
could not give him one, for he had only 
written a single essay, although it was a 
remarkably good one. On learning this 
young Blackie burst into tears, 

*' At the age of twenty, 1 ' he continued, 
**I went to Germany and ori to Rome, 
where I devoted myself tQ the study of the 

languages. Here, too, I met many of the 
world's greatest men. And so the days 
passed by until once more I returned to the 
old country, and in 1834 was called to the 
Scottish Bar. But I was not a success, and 
I really used to sing a song at my own ex- 
pense when out at parties, which asked all 
benevolent people to give a poor starving 
lawyer a fee.'* 

Crossing to a desk. Professor Blackie 
searched through a number of old papers, 
and at last came across a long sheet of 
foolscap, the ink on which was yellow with 
age. It was written fifty-eight years ago ! It 
was the original manuscript of the song he 
wrote himself, and, save for the time occupied 
in learning it, that slip of paper had not seen 
the light of day for all these years. The 
words are reproduced for the first time in 
these pages. His favourite Scotch ballad 
to-day, and one he often sings, is *' Jenny 
Geddes. 11 


(A New Song for Young Barristers.) 

TAir : Buy a Broom] 

O listen, of Scotch and of Civil Law Doctors all, 
Solicitors, Agents, Accountants, to me I 

listen, of strifes and of law -suits cone octors all, 
And give to a poor starving lawyer a fee ! 

Give a Tee ! give a fee ! give a fee ! 

give to a poor starving law\*er a fee I 

Fi Du me in lieber first fee 1 mein first fee ! mem 
ftrstfee K ■ : I f 
O when wilt thou tinkle so tweet to my ear ? 






Weeks I wait, monihs 1 wait, years ill in vain I 
Ei Du rnein lieber first fee, when wilt ihou 
appear ? 

The soldier and sailor they dash nn and splash on, 

And, sure of their pay, scour the land and the sea ; 
But we peak and pine here, 
and long, long years pass 
Before our eyes blink at our 
first guinea fee. 
Give a fee, &c. 

The Church is an Eden of 
violets and roses. 
The Bishop its Adam from 
drudgery free ; 
The big burly priest on his 
soft down reposf s, 
While we still must fag on, 
and cry, " Give a fee t " 
Give a fee, Ike* 

The quack he sells wholesale 

his piQf universal, 
And straight waxes richer 

than sag est M.D., 
But we still must con o'er the 

same dull rehearsal, 
And leave one or two old 

stagers for to pocket the 

fee r 
Give a fee* &£* 

Some men who can worship 
the star that's ascendant. 

One speech from the hustings whips up to the sky ; 
But I, who in all things am most independent— 

Except in my purse— in the mud here I lie. 
Give a fee t &c. 

Here sit 1 } all frozen ; my youth's glowing visions 
See^saw, like a Chinese Joss, or a Turkish Cadi. 

I seek for no learning beyond the Decisions, 
And my soul's proud ideal is a bright guinea fee* 

Give a fee, &c. 

My cheeks they are yellow, my hair it is grey, sir ; 

Mine eyes are deep sunk in my head, as you see ; 
I feel life's sear Autumn when scarce past its May, 

And still 1 am waiting my first guinea fee ! 
Give a fee! give a fee ! give a fee 1 

force me no longer to cry, t[ Give a fee ! w 


11 Finally," he said, u at the age of thirty, 

1 found my talents for the bar were small, 
so I gave it up, Iti i S41 I was appointed 
to the newly-formed chair of Latin Litera- 
ture in Marischal College, Aberdeen," 
The world knows his work and his 
successful efforts to better the con- 
dition of his fellow-creatures too well for 
the subject to call for lengthy remark here, 
His books are extensively read, the two 
which have had the largest sale being 
" Self-Culture " and li Life of Burns/ 1 His 
metrical translation of Goethe's " Faust ' T 
was done in four months ; his " Homer and 
the Iliad," which occasioned much research^ 
took altogether ten years to complete, but 
was only worked at as a summer recrea- 
tion. One of the triumphs of his life was 
that of founding the Celtic Chair in the 
University of Edinburgh. Here is the 
story : — 






















by Google 

Original from 



From a P\ot& **] 


[Etmt & Fr». 

"The Highlanders wanted a Celtic Chair 
of Literature, and I was asked to undertake 
the task. Now, I am not accustomed to 
begging. I was told if I didn't beg the thing 
would go to the wall. Well, I said I would 
try. During that four years of begging I 
got a great insight into human nature. In 
a word j the art of begging is simply this — 
if you want the Duke you must first get 
the Duchess. There is more sympathy in 
women in these matters. When I had got 
about ^5,000 Her Majesty at InveraryCastle 
subscribed ^*2QO + The Princess Louise said 
to me, ' How do you expect to get the rest 
of the money ? ' 

tM Oh, some way or other, your Royal 
Highness/ I replied, 

u b But how ? * the Princess insisted. 

" * Faith removes mountains/ I replied/' 
and the enthusiastic Professor might have 
added " Scotch mountains/* for it was no easy 
taik to move the pockets of the people ere 
the £ J o,ooo was obtained, and the Celtic 
Chair was an accomplished fact. His great 
fervour of Celtic enthusiasm led to the 
drawing of a caricature by his brother-in- 
law, which is shown in the adjoining cut. 

Professor Blackie loves the Germans. 
All the books he has in his library, 
implying thought and learning, have the 
names of German writers on their backs. 
He doesn't care for the French, for 
the natural reason that he is so fond of 

the Germans. 

Neither does . 

iiizeooy ILtiX 


French language— " It is too snippy/ 1 he 
says, " scrappy and polished. French is a 
polite corruption of Latin, whilst Italian, 
though a variation of Latin, has much 
dignity and sweetness about it." He regards 
the Baron Von Bunsen as the finest type of 
a human being he ever met, whilst Max 
Miiller is the only German he knows who 
can write perfectly good English, and has 
the rare threefold gift of learning, pietv, and 
common sense. 

When I left the study T in response to the 
sound of the gong in the hall, it was not 
without a half-sheet of notepaper, on which 
were written a few lines specially for these 
pages, and entitled ''Men, and' What to 
Think of Them;' 

In the dining-room I met Mrs. Blackie, 
a woman of great culture and rare kind- 
ness. She has been a wifely help to her hus- 
band for nearly fifty years, for the morning 
of their golden wedding will dawn in April 
Even to-day when her husband writes her 
a letter, he calls her *' Oke." a Greek word 
which means "swift." It was a happy 
quartette at the luncheon libit — Protest 
Blackie and his wife, Dn Stodart Walker 
and myself. The Professor's milk was in a 
glass, keeping warm by the fire, but to- 
day, — to-day, owing to the presence of 
u visitors/ 1 — port wine was substituted for 
the creamy fluid. Such was his repast, with 
a little Scotch home-made ginger-bread. 
Delicious JOri gin a I from 




A word is whispered across the t able— 
"Carlyle J" 

" I knew Carlyle intimately/ 1 Professor 
Blackie said, responding to the whispered 
name, " but I was not one of his out-and- 
out worshippers at all. His work was to 
rouse the world ; but I was wide awake, 
and required no rousing. I thought him 
somewhat despotic and tyrannical ; though, 
mark you, he possessed extraordinary pic- 
torial power, and was a good Scotchman. 
I admired his genius, and perhaps his bark 
was worse than his bite, He was hard- 
hearted, and hated sinners. He called here 
once just when the great noise was going 
on about the convicts being underfed. He 
began talking about them. * Puir fellows I 
puir fellows ! ■ he said, 'give them brown 
soup and a footstool, and kick them to the 
devil ! ' 

M Carlyle was a great talker, and he 
would talk, talk, talk, and never give one a 
chance to contradict his assertions, I have 
a habit— one of many years 7 standing — of 
going up to London once every year. I 
do it now. I always called on Carlyle at 
Chelsea, generally on Sunday evenings. 
One night I contrived, by starting as soon 
as I got into the room, to open the con- 
versation, and went on from topic to topic, 
till they mounted to a dozen ; but to none 
of my themes would my stout old friend 
give an assenting reply. At last in des- 
peration I shouted out, * Very well, I think 

you Ve come to " The Everlasting No/* so 
you and I can't agree/ Off I went, but we 
remained good friends for all that, 

11 One night I shook him — yes, shook 
him. His poor wife used to sit there 
and never speak. I was in his room 
on this particular Sunday, and his wife 
particularly wanted to say something. 
But there was not the smallest chance. I 
got up, took hold of him, and giving him a 
good shaking, cried, * Let your wife speak, 
you monster ! '; but for all that he wouldn't/ 1 

Poor Mrs. Carlyle ! She suffered from 
heart disease. Even when she heard that 
her husband had made his successful oration 
as Lord Rector of Edinburgh University 
she fainted. The circumstances surround- 
ing her death, too, are both painful and 
tragic. Whilst out in her carriage her 
little pet dog contrived to get out and was 
run over. The coachman drove on and 
on, until at last, receiving no orders, he 
looked in at the carriage. Whether it was 
the shock or not will never be known, but 
his mistress lay there dead. 

Carlyle lies buried with his own people 
at Ecclefechan, whilst his wife rests by the 
side of her father at Haddington, 

Still the name of Carlyle hovers about 
the dinner table, and Mrs. Blackie contri- 
butes her story about him thus : — 

"One day," said Mrs. Blackie, "I went 
to call on Mrs. Carlyle. It was in the after- 
noon of a very, very hot day, I was just 

Fp<m ft Phot®, tyj 


' R0OM - UNIVffiSltYOFffltftlfflN 



saying goodbye, when it suddenly occurred 

to me to ask — referring of course to her 

husband , * May I see 

the great man ? ■ 

Mrs. Carlyle took 

me down some dark 

kitchen stairs, and 

i here, in a corner, 

with his trousers 

drawn up to his, 

knees j sat Carlyle on 

a chair, with his 

feet and legs in a 

great tub of cold 

water ! " 

If that little lun- 
cheon party was re* 
sponsible for nothing 
more, it will be 
memorable for one 
thing. It was the 
scene of the denial 
of the accuracy of 
probably one of the 
most famous anec- 
dotes told of any 
man. Who has not 
heard the story? 
Dr. Stodart Walker 
related it one? again. 
It is to the effect 
that one day Pro- 
fessor Blackie caused a notice to be written 
on the black-board of the class-room, stating 
.that " Professor Blackie will not meet his 
classes to-day," The story continues that 
a wag of a student, entering soon after, 
very unkindly rubbed off the letter c. Still 
furthermore, so runs the anecdote, the 
Professor himself entered, and seeing the 
obliteration of the c, immediately pro- 
ceeded to wipe out the I ! 

bfc It's not true ! it's not trite ! M exclaimed 
Professor Blackie, dramatically, rising from 


his chair and striking his fist on the 

^But, my dear/ 1 
said Mrs, Blackie, 
merrily, " it's just 
what you w< >uld have 
done, ' and the Pro- 
fessor crossed to his 
wife, and putting 
his arms about her 
neck, kissed her. 
Then he cried vigor- 
ously, as he looked 
out at 'the weather,' 
''It's going to be 
a beautiful after- 
noon. 1*11 go out 
— I'll go out ! T * In 
five minutes the 
blue dressing-gown 
with the red silk 
sash, the Panama 
straw hat, have been 
cast aside, and the 
Professor appears in 
a black frock coat 
with his plaid cast 
round him, and a 
large broad - brim- 
nied black felt hat 
on his head. We are 
standing at the door. 
il Oh," says the Professor, light-heartedly, 
as he selects one of the twenty walking- 
sticks, "I still do my three or four miles 
a day. But there were times when I 
lived at Oban, when I would go off for a 
fortnight's walk on what I used to call 
4 The One Shirt Expedition.' Why, there's 
not a high mountain in Scotland that 1 
have not been to the top of, and I've no 
doubt but that I could do one now— with a 
rest by the way/' We left the house to- 
gether. Harry How, 


Original from 

Strong-minded Miss Met/men. M 

By E. W. Hoknung. 

HEN. Canon Methuen was 
offered the least tempting of 
Australian bishoprics, strong 
hopes of a refusal were enter- 
tained by admirers of that 
robust and popular divine. 
His chances of a much more desirable pre- 
ferment, if he would but wait for it, were, 
on the one hand, considerable ; and on the 
other hand was his daughter Evelyn. Miss 
Methuen, an only unmarried child, was not 
the one to suffer transportation to the 
bush, while she was the one — the very one 
— to influence her father's decision. So said 
those who knew her, showing, as usual, 
how little th 3y did know her. For what- 
soever was novel, romantic-sounding, or 
unattractive to her friends, most mightily 
attracted Evelyn Methuen ; and the Aus- 
tralian bishopric possessed all these merits. 
Her friends were right about the girl's in- 
fluence in general with their beloved Canon ; 
they did not over-rate the weight of her 
say in this particular matter ; but beyond 
this their fond calculations proved sadly 
adrift. Evelyn never even paused to con- 
sider the thing, say in the light of trans- 
portation and live burial ; she jumped at it ; 
and on this occasion she did not jump back. 
Her father, who knew her, gave her time 
for the customary rebound. But this time 
she knew her mind, and on the fifth $ay the 
world learnt that the offer of this Colonel 
bishopric (of which it had never heard 
before) had been definitely accepted by the 
Reverend Canon Methuen. 

Miss Methuen had done it, and apparently 
^he knew no regrets. That repentance at 
leisure of which her father had disquieting 
visions, founded on past experience of her, 
did indeed become conspicuous, but only in 
a delightful manner. She was not, of course, 
without a proper sorrow at departure : the 
spires at sunset made her pensive ; she duly 
cried when the wrench came, but performed 
that wrench strong-mindedly, notwithstand- 

ing. This was her accredited characteristic, 
strength of mind. It enabled her to tear 
herself away from a grand old town for 
which she had an unaffected veneration — 
where she spent most of her life, where 
her mother lay buried, where two sisters 
lived married : from some precious Exten- 
sion Lectures, in the middle of the Brown- 
ing Course : from her own little room, made 
pretty with her own hands, at small cost, 
with fans and Aspinall and photographs in 
frames : from those very young men who 
were foolish about her at this time ; and 
almost as easily, six weeks later, from the 
more mature and less impossible admirers 
of the outward voyage. But — though,^to 
be sure, she had never had absolute occasion 
for a refusal of marriage — she would have 
refused Lord Shields himself — the fellow- 
passenger — on the voyage out. Her heart 
was set upon the wilderness, and on that 
Bishop's Lodge there, her future home;. 
And the only men for her now were the 
gallant bushrangers of some stories she 
made a point of reading before landing — 
their kind, at least, which of course must 
still infest the wilderness. 

Pefore reading these romances — that is, 
until the prospect came of living in Australia 
— Miss Methuen's ideas of that continent 
had been very vague, very elementary, 
and rather funny. Her timely reading 
gave shape and background to her ideas, 
but left them funnier than ever ; at .all 
events, it did not prepare her for the 
place she was going to ; it did not pretend 
to do so, that romantic literature ; only 
Miss Methuen had chosen to assume that 
all Australian scenery would be in the same 
style. She was prepared, in short, for 
gullies, gum-trees, caves, ranges, kangaroos, 
opossums, claims, creeks, snakes in the 
grass, and chivalrous robbers on the high- 
road ; but she was not prepared for a dead 
level of sandy desert, broken only by the 
river-timbers oft a narrow, sluggish stream, 



"call this ths bushT*' 

nor for a wooden township, where the worst 
weapons of man were strong drink in the 
head and strong language on the tongue ; 
and this was what she found. Great was the 
disillusion* and in every respect ; it dis- 
counted and discoloured all things, even to 
the Bishop's Lodge, which — with its com- 
plete margin of creeper -cove red verandah 
— was charming in everything but situation. 

" Call this the bush ! — where are the 
trees ? " she said rather petulantly to her 
father ; and, as she looked at his long dust- 
coat of light-coloured silk, duck trousers, 
and pith helmet, she might have added : 
11 Call you a Bishop ! — where are your 
gaiters ? " 

Iq fact, Miss Methuen's contentment 
wore away, very nearly, with the novelty. 
The Bishop saved the situation by taking 
her with him on his first episcopal round 
up country, He wore, too, on that round, 
his gaiters (with a new chum's stout shoot- 
ing-boots underneath) and black garments, 
for the cool weather was coming on. They 
had a delightful cruise among the sheep- 
stations of the diocese (a little district the 
size of England), their pilot being the 

Bishop's Chaplain, who, as it 
happened, was a son of the soil. 
They gave the hospitality of the 
squatter a splendid trial, and 
found that celebrated Colonial 
quality rated not at all too high, 
The Bishop held services in the 
queerest places, and ad- 
ministered holy rites to 
the most picturesque ruf- 
fians, winning in alt quar- 
ters the respect and admi- 
ration of men not prone 
to respect or to admire, 
for his broad shoulders 
and grizzled beard and 
his erect six feet, as well 
as for the humanity and 
virility of every sentence 
in his simple, telling ad- 
dresses . Evelyn, pernios, 
was admired less ; but she 
did not suspect this, and 
she enjoyed herself vastly. 
There were gentlemanly 
young overseers at nearly 
all the stations. These 
young men, naturally 
taken with the healthy 
colour and good looks of 
the English girl, were 
sufficiently attentive, and 
seemed duly impressed by her conversation. 
So they were ; but clever Evelyn was not 
clever In her topics ; she talked Browning 
to them, and culture, and the " isms "; and 
they mimicked her afterwards — the attentive 
young men. But this she did not suspect 
either* She returned from the cruise in 
the highest spirits, her preconceptions of 
the bush not realised, indeed, but for- 
gotten ; and after weeks among the stations 
the wooden town seemed a different and a 
better place, and the Bishop's Lodge a 
paradise of ease and beauty. 

But during the less eventful period of the 
Bishop's ministry at head-quarters, the de- 
light on his daughter's part tapered, as her 
delights invariably did in the absence of 
variety. She began systematically to miss 
things u after old England ; TT and here the 
Bishop could sympathise, though the forced 
expression of his sympathy galled his con- 
tented and tolerant nature, He pointed 
out that compariscti was scarcely fair, and 
hinted that it lay with Evelyn, as with him- 
self, at once to enjoy and to improve the 
new environment. But of course there 
were matters tor regret, occasions for a sigh. 



The service of the sanctuary was neces- 
sarily less sumptuous here than in the old 
English minster ; and Evelyn had a soul 
of souls for high mass, and the exaltation of 
the spirit through the senses. Then when 
the service was over, there were no young 
curates of culture to step in to Sunday 
supper or dinner, as the case might be. 
This was a want of another kind ; it is not 
suggested that it was the greater want. The 
social gap, certainly, was an unattractive 
feature of Bishop's Lodge, where even the 
young overseers, who talked with a twang 
and had barely heard of Browning — never 
of William Morris — where even those un- 
lettered savages had been royally welcomed 
visitors. As it was, the only visitors, 
almost, were the Chaplain and his wife, who 
did not count, as they practically lived at 
the Lodge. Nor was either of this excel- 
lent couple to Evelyn's taste. The Chap- 
lain, indeed, was but a bushman with a clean 
mouth ; clerical, to the eye, in his clothes 
only. No one could have accused him of 
polish — nor yet, let us state, of laziness or 
insincerity. Evelyn, however, tilted her 
nose at him. As for the Chaplain's wife, 
she was just one of those kind, unpre- 
tentious women who are more apt to be 
spoken of as " bodies." She did many 
things for Evelyn ; but she had also many 
children, and spoilt the lot ; so that Evelyn 
could do nothing but despise her. For, in 
her reputed strong mind, Miss Methuen 
nursed a catholic contempt for human 
weaknesses of every shade. 

When, however, the time came for further 
episcopal visitations, Evelyn, who accom- 
panied her father as before, once more 
enjoyed herself keenly. Her enjoyment 
was certainly enhanced by the fact that the 
ground traversed was not the old ground. 
But this turned out to be her last treat of 
the kind for some time to come. The 
next round of travels was arranged with 
the express object of Confirmation, and 
the Bishop seemed to feel that on this 
occasion the companionship of his daughter 
might be out of place. He decided, at 
all events, to take no one but the Chap- 
lain. So Evelyn was left behind with the 
Chaplain's wife, and neither lady had a 
very delightful time. The girl spent most 
of hers in writing exhaustive letters to 
her friends, prolix with feminine minutiae, 
but pathetically barren of the adventures 
which she longed to recount, if not to 
experience. In particular she corresponded 
with some old friends in Sydney, at whose 

fashionable residence she had spent a night 
before accompanying her father up-country. 
These people sympathised with her on many 
sheets of expensive note-paper. The letters 
became mutually gushing ; and long before 
the Bishop's return, Evelyn had arranged 
to spend the term of his next absence with 
her opulent friends in Sydney. 

When he did return, Evelyn, as it hap- 
pened, was not in the house. In point of 
fact, she was reading under the gum-trees by 
the sluggish little river, but, as usual, the 
Chaplain's wife was not in the unnecessary 
secret of her whereabouts. Evelyn's book 
on this occasion had itself a strong odour 
of the gum-trees, for it chanced to be the 
Poems of the bush poet, Lindsay Gordon. 
Now Evelyn, having attended University 
Extension Lectures on the subject of 
" Modern Poetry/' was of course herself 
an authority on that subject ; equally of 
course she found much to criticise in these 
bush ballads. What, however^ not even 
Miss Methuen couldfind faultwith, was their 
local colour. She had seen it herself up 
the country ; she only wished she had seen 
more of it — more of Gordon's bush and 
Gordon's bushmen. Oddly enough, though, 
in his book, the verses that attracted her 
most were never written by Gordon at 

11 Booted, and bearded, and burnt to a brick, 
I loaf along the street ; 
I watch the ladies tripping by, 
And 1 bless their dainty feet." 

She liked these lines well enough to learn 
them, and it was impossible to avoid glancing 
at her own dainty feet in doing so. Why 
did she never encounter the booted bush- 
man who had seen better days ? 

11 1 watch them here and there, 
With a bitter feeling of pain ; 
Ah ! what wouldn't I give to feel 
A lady's hand again ! " 

" Ah ! " echoed Evelyn, looking at her 
own small hand, " and what wouldn't / 
give — to pull some poor fellow to the sur- 
face with you ! " 

And indeed she was ready to give much, 
having some soul for the romantic, and 
being bored. 

Looking up from her book, she was 
startled to see her father hurrying towards 
her, his fine face beaming with gladness, 
Evelyn beamed too, and they embraced in 
the road, very prettily. The Bishop ex- 
plained his early arrival ; the last stages 
he, even he, had driven furiously — to get 
back to his darling girl. Then he thrust 





his strong, kind arm through hers, and 
led her home. But as they neared the 
Lodge his steps hesitated- 

44 Sly dear, I have a confession to make 
to you. TT 

" A confession ! Have you done some- 
thing naughty, father ? " 

u Yes ! I have taken pity on an un- 
deserving young man. You know, Evelyn, 
this colony is full of educated young men 
who have gone hard down hill until 
reaching the bottom here in the bush, 
i have come across I can't tell you how 
many instances up country, men from our 
Universities and public schools, living from 
year's end to year's end in lonely huts, 
mere boundary-riders and whim drivers." 

" Coo te m pti ble creatures!" exclaimed 
Miss Evelyn, with virtuous vigour, " I 
have no sympathy with them, not an 
atom ! v 

Though Gordon w T as still under her arm, 
the bush man who had seen better days 
had vanished quite out of tier head, which 
contained, as we know, a strong mind, and 
was perhaps rather swollen by conscious 

8tre ^ th - ligiiized by GoOgle 

The Bishop was not pleased. 
" Come, come, Evelyn ! I do 
not like to hear my dear girl settle 
questions in that way — questions 
of humanity, too. It was not our 
blessed Lord's way, Evelyn, my 
darling ! However, the young man 
I speak of has done nothing to 
merit anyone's contempt — nothing, 
nothing/' averred the Bishop, with 
disingenuous emphasis. £l He is 
merely a young fellow who came 
out to the Colonies and— and has 
not as yet done as well as he hoped 
to do. And I found I had been at 
school with his father I " 

4( Where is he now ? Tt asked 
Evelyn, divining that he was not 
far off. 

"Here in the house,*' confessed 
the Bishop* "He goes on in the 
coach — it leaves in an hour, at 
seven ; and, Evelyn, my dear, I'd 
rather you didn't see him before 
he went- He is going down to 
Sydney to get himself some decent 
clothes, and I have also asked him 
to have his beard shaved off, as he 
is quite a young man. The fact 
is, he will be back here in a fort- 
night, and you will see him then ; 
for he is coming back as my 
Lay Reader ! " 

They covered some yards in silence. 
Then Evelyn casually inquired the young 
man's name, and her father told her that 
it was Follct ; Christian name Samuel, 
after the Bishop's old schoolfellow. As 
they approached the house, the Bishop 
persuaded his daughter to efface herself 
until the coach had gone ; it was not fair, 
he said, to meet the young man as he was, 
when in a few days he would come back 
a different being. It would have been 
inevitable, such a meeting, had Evelyn 
been in when they arrived ; but now that 
it was so easily avoidable, would she not 
have the strength of mind to avoid it ? 
He knew she must feci very inquisitive. 
So she did; but she loved, above most 
things, an appeal to her strength of mind. 
She promised* To see, however, was not 
to meet. And strong-minded Evelyn con- 
trived to see — through a window of the 
room in which the future reader was 
waiting — herself unseen in the gathering 

She could not see much : a slim young 
man sitting ovu" the firs ; a bronzed face, 



24 r 

illumined by the flames with flickering 
patches of orange ; thick black hair ; a 
thin black beard ; moleskins, leggings. 

'A li RON zed fack illumined by the flames," 

Crimean shirt, and a felt wideawake on 
the floor between his feet. This was 
absolutely all that Evelyn saw* But it 
was enough- The contempt she felt or 
affected for weak humanity did not trouble 
her just then. Miss Methuen forgot it. 
Miss Methuen, for one rare moment, for- 
got herself. She saw before her the burnt 
and bearded bush man who had known 
betttr days* And the sight wan good in 
her eyes. 

In a fortnight he would be back there as 
Lay Reader ! 

How a Bishop, who was also a man of 
the world, came to make so injudicious 
an arrangement, only Bishop Methuen 
could explain. The chances are that in 
contemplation of the evils from which it 
was to be his blessed privilege to rescue this 
young man, he lost sight of others of a less 
shocking description. Certainly that night, 
when he removed his pipe from his teeth 

(for this prelate smoked like any shearer) 
to kiss good-night to his daughter, and when 
Evelyn said, really meaning it at the 
moment, that she would do 
all she could for the per- 
manent reformation of poor 
Mn Follet — certainly it did 
not seem to the Bishop, just 
then, that he had made an 
injudicious arrangement. 

Within the fortnight Follet 
duly reappeared — a quietly- 
dressed, clean-shaven, earnest 
young man. Arid within the 
week after that he found it 
impossible to sail under false 
colours with one so honest 
and high-souled, so frank 
and strong-minded as Miss 
Methuen, He told her his 
story — and the worst part of 
it, which the Bishop had not 
told her — in a sudden burst 
of mingled shame and thank- 
fulness, and in a chance five 
minutes in the starlit veran- 
dah. His curse had been 
drink ! Yet Miss Methuen 
heard this revolting con- 
fession without being visibly 
revolted — even without that 
contemptuous curl which 
came too easily to her lips. 

11 Forgive me," he mur- 
mured, u forgive me for tell- 
ing you ! 1 couldn't help 
it ! I canH go on pretending 
to have been what I have not been — not 
to you, who are so honest, and frank, and 
strong ! " 

u How do you know I am strong ? n asked 
the girl, colouring with pleasure ; for he had 
fingered the mainspring of her vanity. 
11 1 see it," 

"Oh, but 1 am not, 11 
" You are ! you are ! " he exclaimed, con- 
tradicting her almost as vehemently as she 
desired. (i And now you can never think 
the same of me again — though you will not 
show it ! " 

" You are wrong, 1 * whispered Evelyn, in 
her softest tone. "I will think all the 
more of you — for having climbed out of 
that pit ! You are going on climbing now : 
only think how much nobler it will be to 
have climbed from the bottom of the horri- 
ble pit, than had you started from the level 
land, and never fallen ! " 

24 2 


free from nobiltty. As she uttered it she 
gave him her hand T frankly and cordially. 
Then she left him alone in the starlight, 
inspired to do and to dare glorious 
things, and burning to scale the glittering 
heights of divine enterprise — always sup- 


ported by the strong soul of Evelyn 

The obvious sequel of that starry night 
took place just two months later — it was 
surely very creditable to both parties that 
it did not take place much sooner. At 
length, however, on a similar night of 
stars, only in the warmer air of November, 
Miss Methuen found herself in the angle 
of Fol let's arnv — heard hiin whisper to the 
sweet end what others, mere bo^s, had but 
timidly and tentatively begun in the old 
days at home — found her head lying back 
upon his shoulder— and breathed , scarcely 
knowing it, an answer which deserved a 
finer deliberation than she had given it 
You see, it was the first time she had been 

properly and definitely asked in marriage, 
the incomparable Miss Methuen. 

Then Bishop Methuen made the force of 
his character unpleasantly apparent. 

For so gentle and godly a man, he* 
showed a truly amazing capacity for anger 
— and anger of a very downright, 
usual, and Britannic description. 
Angry, however, as he was w tli 
the culprits, he was still more 
angry with himself; and — what 
was not usual, but the very re- 
verse—this made him blame the 
culprits less and himself more. 
Putting the pair on parole, he 
promised to give the matter fair 
consideration, and he did so in 
portentous privacy- Then emerg- 
ing, like the jury, after a merci- 
fully 4 * short delay," he gave what 
was really, on the whole, a most 
merciful verdict. Evelyn was to 
go down to Sydney, and stay with 
lier fine friends there as many 
months as they would have her 
— six, if possible. There were 
to be no letters, no direct com- 
munication of any kind* But, if 
they were both of the same mind 
when Evelyn came back— and 
always supposing Follet was as 
zealous and earnest a worker then 
as now — then the Bishop would 
consider the whole matter afresh. 
They need not look for an un- 
conditional consent even then. 
The very promise of reconsidera- 
tion was essentially conditional. 

So Miss Methuen went down 
to Sydney a month before Christ^ 
mas ; and the Bishop, in his 
human inconsistency, granted her 
a long interview with Follet on the eve of 
her departure. Nor did Dr. Methuen's 
goodness end then or there ; he was ridicu- 
lously good to Follet from that time forth* 
The very next day he made the young man 
fetch his trunks from the Chaplain's house, 
where hitherto he had lodged, and keep 
bed and board henceforward at the Lodge. 
Both were free \ and it was the Bishop, of 
course, who had paid for those trunks and 
their contents, not as a present (so he said), 
but as an advance of salary. He would have 
had us remember that the young fellow 
wasjiis old schoolfellow's son. The young 
fellow, however, had amiable characteristics 
of his own. More than this, he was of real 
use to the Bishop, being, in spite of his 





sins, more to the manner born than the 
honest (but indigenous) Chaplain, A strong 
mutual affection came into being between 
the old man and the young one, and daily 
increased — an attachment apart from grati- 
tude. Fol let's gratitude was a thing by 
itself, something never expressed m words 
nor by any conscious look or act. Uncon- 
sciously he expressed it every day. And 
these bonds were supplemented by one still 
stronger— that is, on Follet *s side : the 
impalpable bond of Evelyn. They seldom 
spoke of her ; never in any but the most 
casual connection. But Follet loved to 
think of the good old man as Evelyn's 
father. The Bishop, on the contrary, 
hated to think of Follet as her lover, He 
knew Evelyn better than Evelyn knew 

The girl's letters naturally were men- 
tioned when they arrived, though they 
never, of course, contained a message, The 
nearest the pair came to joining hands over 
Evelyn was, however, in the matter of a 
letter from her. It came when the Bishop 
was busy ; it begged htm to send her a 
certain book of poems, and 
when nobody could find the 
book, the Bishop said, rather 
testily : u Write, like a good 
fellow, and tell her it isn't in 
the house. And you may as 
well say we're all right, but too 
busy — well, that 
we're busy." The 
Bishop remem- 
bered what he 
was doing ; yet 
he presently 
added, "Stay! 
If there's any- 
thing to interest 
her, say it ; it 
will save me a 
letter ; and 
really I am very 
busy ! Tl Nor 
was the incon- 
sistency merely 
human this 
time; the Bishop 
was curious to 
see what notice 
would be taken 
of Follet's letter. 
Would her next 
be nominally to 
Follet direct, in 
answer, or would 

she thank him in a message ? There was 
justifiable occasion for the former course : 
but Evelyn did not seize the occasion ; she 
took no notice at all ! Then the Bishop 
became vastly uneasy, and wished with all 
his heart that he did not know his daughter 
so well. 

This was not until the fifth month of 
Evelyn's absence, and her friends in Sydney 
had been only too delighted to take her for 
the six ; but long before that time had 
elapsed the Bishop was upset by a tele- 
gram announcing that she was already 
on her way home. No reason, no explana- 
tory hint "was given. He who knew her 
so well was prepared for anything. It was 
a two days' journey, she could not arrive 
before the evening following the receipt of 
her telegram* In his perplexity the Bishop 
took the news straight to Sam Follet. 

That young man was now reading 
earnestly for Orders, He had, indeed, been 
intended for the Church from early years ; 
but he was a clergyman's son ; he had dis- 
appointed, and been sent to the colonies — ■ 
to the dogs, in other words — for it is so with 




% T Original from 



those who are sent out to be got rid of. But 
now Bishop Methuen was in communica- 
tion with his rejoicing old schoolfellow, and 
the boy was to be ordained after all* The 
Bishop found him busy reading in his bed- 
room. This was the first time he had 
intruded on him there. Follet was seated 
at a little table touching the wall ; from a 
peg high over the table depended a sur- 
prising collection of old garments, crowned 
by a grey felt wide-awake. They interested 
the Bishop in spite of his errand ; he was 
glad, besides, to curve round to the point ; 
sOj as Follet turned round in his chair, he 
greeted him extempore : — 

" What iti the name of fortune are 
those things over your head, my dear 

Follet blushed a 
little, tilted his chair 
backward, eyed the 
queer garments, and 
rather timorously 
answered : 

w They're my 
old bush togs, 
sir. I keep 
them there to 
— to remind me 
— that is, so 
that I shan't 
forget " 

He stuck. 
The Bishop 
hastily changed 
the subject by 
coming to his 
point* In an 
instant Follet 
was on his legs, 
his face trans- 

" You'll let 
me meet the 
coach, won't 
you ? Oh, 

I forgot ! One 
of us has to go to Stratford Downs to- 
morrow I n 

u You must be the one," said the Bishop, 

II /must be the one to see Evelyn first," 
he added, in a reminding tone, " I can't 
divine what is fetching her home so sud- 
denly as this ! ,? And as he watched the 
summer-lightning play of joy and anxiety 
over the young man's face, his heart pained 
for him, for he did divine evil. 

He knew Evelyn only too well. 

11 1 am glad he is not in," she said when 

she arrived. Her eyes and manner betrayed 
excitement, with difficulty controlled. "And 
oh, father ! how thankful I am you wouldn't 
let me be engaged to him ! ,! 

"Why? 11 asked the Bishop, sternly, as 
he instinctively put her hands from him. 

Miss Methuen tremblingly skinned the 
glove from her left hand, which she held 
up to her father's eyes, only to dazzle them 
with the blaze of diamonds on the third 
finger. The sight hit him to the heart, 
stopping its beat. 

u Yes, I never really loved him ! I know- 
it now— now that 1 really love ! What 
will he do to me, do you think? Will 

he kill me ? I 
thought I loved 
him, God knows 
I did, but I never 
really loved be- 
fore ! Father! 
why don't you 
speak tu me ? I 
am engaged. You 
cannot prevent it 
— you will not 
want to when you 
know all, when 
you know him ! 
Speak to me, 
father! Say 

But the Bishop 
only stung her 
with his eye, 

' s You'll break 

it to hi in , father? 

Then I'll see him 

myself. He'll be 

more merciful 

than you ! Oh ! 

but you will be 

glad some day, 

when you know 

him, You will 

be glad when 

you see me 

honestly loved before ! 

to see you as soon as 

his business." 

business ? !I asked the 


I never 


And he is coming 

ever he can leave 

"What is his 

"He is in wholesale jewellery— wfodc- 

Few would have recognised Dr. Methuen 
in the glance he cast at the resplendent 
diamond ring. He could have turn it from 
his daughter's finger and stamped upon it 
under her eyes. Wholesale, indeed ! There 



was scant need to insist on that extenuating 

That night the Bishop broke the blow : 
and Follet took it badly. Later, Miss 
Methuen had the strength of mind to insist 
on facing him herself; and from her he 
bore it even worse. Miss Methuen must 
have felt considerable contempt for his 
weakness. He locked him- 
self in his room and would 
see no one else that night. 
The Bishop came to the 
door : no, in the morning. 
The Bishop came later ; 


he was sobbing. Later still, however — much 
later — his breathing sounded easy and even. 
The Bishop crept away on tip-toe, and him- 
self lay down, after intercessory prayer ; 
but early in the morning he went again 
to the door ; and there was no more 
sound of breathing within. The wind 
came through the keyhole, no other breath 
touched the ear ; a thread of sunlight 
marked the bottom of the door. In sudden 
frenzy the Bishop burst it open, and stood 
panting in an empty 
bisected by the draught 
window and the broken 
man's clothes had vanished from their peg ; 
those of the Reader lav neatlv folded <ui 
the little table underneath. 

The wholesale jeweller was for some time 
prevented by the exigencies of a thriving 
business from following Evelyn up country, 

She had worn his grand ring upwards of 

room, his beard 
between the open 
door. The bush- 

a month, when, while driving with her 
father in the neighbourhood of the river, 
she descried a man lying on his face in the 
sun, with his hat off. Evelyn pointed with 
the finger of contempt to this self-evident 
case of drunkenness; and the Bishop also 
took characteristic action. He stopped the 
buggy, handed the reins to Evelyn, and 

jumped out. The 
man lay at a dis- 
tance, which 
Bishop Methuen 
covered at the 
double. He found 
a flat stone, 
placed it under 
the sleeper's fore- 
head , and fixed 
the wideawake a^ 
securely as possi 
ble over the back 
of his head ani 
neck. Then he 
returned to the 
buggy, again run- 
ning, and drove 
homeward at an 
unusual rate. 
il How despic- 
able ! " Evelyn exclaimed, 

"Which of us?" asked her 
father, with a sarcasm he would not 
have employed towards her in 
former days. 

41 That " intoxicated wretch t of 
course ! " 
Dr. Methuen lashed his horses. (< Evelyn/' 
said he between the strokes T '* I profoundly 
wish that you would be less free with your 
contempt. There are worse sins than 
drunkenness, which is chiefly shocking* 
You should pray to avoid those sins — mark 
me, they are so much the worse for not 
looking so bad — and try yourself to be 
becomingly humble/' 

Evelyn, not unnaturally, sulked during 
the remainder of that drive. She was too 
much offended to take notice even of the 
unwonted pace. On reaching the Lodge 
she went straight to her room. And the 
Bishop, saddling his riding horse with his 
own hands, galloped back to the spot where 
he had left the drunken sleeper. The man 
was gone. The Bishop had recognised him ; 
he was unaware that the man was then in 
the recovering stage, and that he had him- 
self been recognised. 

He scoured the. country. Late in the 
evening, which was very dark, with a sandy 




a systematic education, and 
only in the latter half of the 
eighteenth century did two 
great men arise who started it 


on the lines on which it has since been 
developed, Heinicke in Germany opened 
a school to teach speech and lip reading, 
and the Abb^ de 1'Epee, moved by the 
want of provision for the deaf and dumb 
in France, founded the National Institute 
for teaching by sign?, and won for himself 
the name of Father of the Deaf Mutes, 
About the same time a man named 
Braid wood introduced the oral system into 
England ; but it utterly failed to take root. 
The oral system to-day is to be seen at 
its best at the Ealing Training College for 
Teachers of the Deaf, now superintended 
by Mrs* Kinsey, whose late husband and 
Mr, B, St. J. Acker s, the chief founder of 
the College T were among the most active 
spirits in England twenty years since 
in showing how much there is in the 
German method. As I made my way to 
Ealing one day I tried hard to form some 
idea of what deafness is like* The truth, 
however, is, that no man with ears and 
eyes can realise what either deafness or 
blindness is* To the teacher the difficulty 
presented by the former is greater than that 
presented by the latter* A child born blind 
has the main channel of communication 
with the brain open, and, so far as speech 
and hearing, which prepare the way to the 
education and enlightenment of the mind, 
go, is on a level of equality with its more 
fortunate fellows. The deaf, on the ton* 

trary, are little removed in 
this respect from the brute 
creation, and, except that 
they have a human brain, 
would be worse off than 
the majority of brutes, 
which, if they cannot talk, 
at least have ears. How, 
then , can a child who has 
never heard a sound be 
taught consciously to utter 
a sound ? It is with a 
view to finding out the 
secret that we are abeut 
to visit Ealing College. At 
this institution, it should 
be said, signs are absolutely 
forbidden, and the children 
have to learn to express their wishes by 
speech, and to understand what others say 
by following the motions of the lips. The 
child is first of all taught sixty sounds, 
on the phonetic principle. Miss Hewett, 
the mistress of the School, breathes or 
blows on the pupil's hand, and makes the 
pupil repeat the process. Say the letters 
" sh M are being taught. The pupil watches 
the teacher's lips, feels the breath on 
the back of the hand, and in a very little 
while can emit the compound herself. 
Other sounds are secured by placing the 
child's hand at the teacher's throat. The 
teacher pronounces the letter or word, and 
the child, placing its hand to its own 
throat, does its best to repeat the sensation 
just experienced at the teacher's. The 
whole thing can only be done by the sense 
of sight and touch, the latter being the sole 


«*3Pitfrfafmtffl E "' s7i,i ' o * T -" 


How the Deaf and Dumb are Educated. 

By Edward Salmon. 

N the Census Re- 
turns of 1 88 1 it 
was shown that 
a certain district 


in Ireland contained an unprecedentedly 
large number of deaf and dumb. Not 
only was the record of the proportion to 
the hearing and speaking broken, but the 
relative increase in the afflicted was so 
alarming, that special inquir was made 
into the matter, with a view to ascertaining, 
if possible, what were the local conditions 
which had brought so many afflicted mor- 
tals into existence. The explanation was at 
once simple and reassuring. The enume- 
rator, with a genius for actualities thoroughly 
Irish, had included under the heading Deaf 
and Dumb all babes who had neither learnt 
to speak nor to understand what was said 
to them. I am tempted to make a state- 
ment hardly less startling than that of the 
Irish census taker, and containing just about 
the same amount of truth. It is that I have 
heard the dumb speak ! or rather, in order 
that a Commission may not be appointed 
to inquire into the accuracy of these words, 
let me say I have heard the reputed dumb 
speak. u But not really use their tongues ? " 
some of my readers, like many of my per- 
sonal friends, will no doubt exclaim. Yes, 
really : I have held converse by word of 
mouth with children who were born deaf or 
who berame deaf at so early an agt> that if 
they ever heard a sound, it has been of the 
smallest possible use to them. Last year I 
was privileged to describe in these pages 
some of the remarkable triumphs accom- 

( dished in the education of those doomed to 
ive their lives in darkness. Since then I 
have had before me, more or less constantly, 
the question of the education of the deaf, 
and have come across many things more 
extraordinary even than the placing of the 

blind on all but a practical footing of equa- 
lity with the seeing. 

In these days, w T hat I may call the higher 
education of the deaf and dumb has reached 
a stage bordering on perfection and wonder- 
land. During the last twenty years an ani- 
mated controversy has been carried on by 
the respective advocates of two systems — 
the oral and the sign. At times it has 
waxed hot and strong. On the one hand,* 
the friends of the " pure oral/' or German 
system, seek to assure us that even a deaf 
child can be taught to speak, and to read 
with its eyes the words uttered by another 
person's lips. On the other, the supporters 
of the sign, or French system, declare that 
the natural means of communication be- 
tween the deaf and dumb and their fellows 
is by motions and the manual alphabet. 
The general public has gone its way 
paying little heed to the pros and cons 
of this most fascinating problem, I may 
be permitted to say, in a quite judicial 
spirit, that, whether both are right or 
partially right, or one is utterly wrong, 
the enthusiasm and spirit with which both 
defend their positions are equally credit- 
able. The end aimed at is to give the 
afflicted an education calculated to advance 
his or her welfare, spiritual and material, in 
after life. Hr?w differently placed is the 
deaf and dumb child to-day from the un- 
happy being born into the world in bygone 
centuries. Now, every civilised country is 
equipped with colleges, institutions, and 
homes for his education. England, which 
to-day, as the result of private enterprise 
and philanthropy, boasts many first-class 
institutions, had at the beginning of the 
century only one public institution for deaf 
mutes. In olden times, it was believed that 
it was hopeless to attempt to get at the 
brain of a being deprived of hearing, and he 
or she was regarded and treated as an idiot. 
To bring a deaf child into the world was a 
disgrace in the eyes of most people, and one 
or two cases in which the afflicted were re- 
ported to have been educated were looked 
upon as miracles. Wise men of old ! If 
they lived to-day they would know that it 
is not only possible to educate a person who 
is deaf and dumb, but one who is deaf, 
dumb, and blind also. It was not till the 
sixteenth century that any serious effort 
seems to have been made to give the deaf 


2 to 


Europe and America studying the French 
and German systems, and came to the 

conclusion that the 
latter offered greater 
chances of reducing 
the disabilities of 
deafness to a mini- 
muni. In addresses, 
which both delivered 
before the Interna- 
tional Congress on 
the Education of the 
Deaf at Milan in 

1880, they gave some instances of what 
had been found possible under the German 
system, Whilst Mrs. Ackers knew cases 
where as many as three foreign languages 
had been acquired by oral pupils, Mr. 
Ackers tojd several instructive anecdotes. 
In their visits to deaf people they never 
met anyone who could have been mistaken 
for a hearing person, he admitted; but 
they heard the conge nitally deaf speak, and 
were understood by them. One apprentice 
they saw stuttered, but spoke intelligibly, 
nevertheless. Indeed, his master said he 
spoke a great deal too much, and was always 
talking with his fellow apprentice. Mr. 

and Mrs. Ackers interviewed a thriving 
deaf dressmaker, who, however, proved 
shy, and was with difficulty induced to say 
anything about herself. She was engaged 
to be married, and her lover, hearing she 
had made so poor an exhibition of her 
powers of talking, rated her roundly on it, 
and Mr. ^nd Mrs, Ackers were treated to the 
edifying spectacle of a spirited altercation 
between the deaf girl and her sweetheart . 
Another case referred to acongenitally deaf 
working tailor, who was at the court-house 
when they called. There had been a theft 
from his master's shop, and he was 
the chief witness. He gave his 
evidence by word of mouth, lip 
read the advocates who examined 
and cross-examined him, and his 
testimony resulted in the conviction 
of the prisoner. Mrs. Kinsey her- 
self told me a remarkable story. 
A country doctor who did not 
believe in the oral system, at a 
dance or an evening party, was 
talking to a young lady whom he 
had not met before. He said he 
had been informed there was a deaf 
lad in the room who had been 
educated on the oral system, 
and he would like to test the 
lad T s ability to speak, and to 
lip read. The young lady 
replied that she supposed he 
meant her brother, who was 
deaf from birth, but spoke 

u Thatis my brother,'* she 
said, indicating a youth stand- 
ing some distance away. 

{i Oh, nonsense ! " cried the 
doctor, 41 1 have just been 
talking to him, and he hears 
as well as I do v 

u He is deaf as a post," 
answered the young lady, "and has not 
heard a word you said." 

If that did not convince the doctor 
of the merits of the oral method nothing 
would. He, however, is not the only 
person who has been deceived, momentarily, 
at any rate, by the deaf w-ho have acquired 
speech. In the Mayor's office of a great 
Midland town, T am told, one of the clerks, 
who has been deaf from infancy, holds his 
own without inconvenience to himself or 
anyone else. 

So far we have been considering the edu- 
cation of the deaf and dumb from the 

brightest and kYiost favourable point of v 




Ealing College receives only the children 
of parents who can afford to pay a first- 
class price for first-class attention and first- 
class results. How fare the afflicted when 
their lot is cast less pleasantly ? What of 
the thousands of children of poor but 
deserving, as well as of pauper, parents 
brought into the world deprived, so to 
speak, of their ears ? The institution re- 
ferred to at the beginning of this paper as 
the only public one in existence at the 
beginning of this century is the Asylum 
for the Deaf and Dumb founded just one 
hundred years ago, in Bermondsey, and 
subsequently removed to the Old Kent- 
road, where it has now a splendid home. 
In the course of this year the centenary of 
the Asylum will be publicly celebrated, and 
much will, no doubt, be published descriptive 
of its great and good work. The institu- 
tion was from the first a success, and since 
its commencement 5,000 deaf and dumb 
children have been, received and educated 
by it, some 2,000 having been apprenticed 
to trades, at a cost of about ^"18,500. As 
the Asylum grew, it was deemed wise to 
establish a branch at the seaside, and if the 
philanthropists who inaugurated it with 
half a dozen inmates in 1792 could see the 
outcome of their work in two imposing 
institutions — one in the Old Kent-road, the 
other at the south-east corner of Margate, 
they would have cause to feel that their 
lives had not been spent in vain. The 
children, who are born of poor parents — 
grooms, gardeners, carpenters, carmen, 
labourers, working men of all kinds, are 
sent for a year to the Old Kent-road, and 
are then drafted to Margate, where, in 
addition to receiving the best education 
which a large school can supply, they receive 
also the health which is to be found on the 
North Kent coast, if anywhere. The Asylum 
is in charge of Dr. Elliott, to whose skill as 
a photographer we are indebted for several 
of our pictures. Dr. Elliott was one of the 
distinguished body of men who at first found 
it difficult to believe that there was anything 
in teaching by the oral system worth the 
time and trouble it involves. Experience has 
convinced him, as it has convinced others, 
that he was wrong, and, within the limits 
rigidly prescribed by opportunity and 
nature, he supports the education of the 
deaf on the German system. There are at 
Margate 300 children, of whom all except 
eighty are being trained to speak and to lip 
read. Fresh from Ealing as I was, I appre- 
ciated instantly the difficulties which beset 

Dr. Elliott. At Ealing each child can 
receive individual attention. At the Mar- 
gate Asylum and similar institutions they 
are of necessity taught in classes of perhaps 
a dozen. The wonder is that under such 
circumstances they ever learn to articulate 
or to lip read at all. They do, however, and 
some of the results are quite remarkable. 
Several children to whom I spoke under- 
stood what I said without apparent difficulty, 
and some had voices so pleasant that I 
wondered whether, if the children had been 
blessed with the organ of sound, they would 
not have made most excellent singers. 

Exigencies of space forbid me to go fully 
into all I saw and heard and did in a seven 
hours' visit to the institution, during which, 
under Dr. Elliott's guidance, I played the 
•part of amateur examiner and inspector of 
the deaf and dumb. First I went over the 
whole place to get a general impression, and 
then spent a considerable time with various 
classes. The great difficulty with the dumb 
is language. Signs indicating mere facts 
and objects they adopt naturally, and are 
not difficult to understand. Language, 
however, whether they are to be taught to 
speak or not, they must have, if they are to 
communicate intelligibly with the hearing 
world. Dr. Elliott, by signs, asked a child, 
whose parents are both deaf and dumb, 
whether she had a brother deaf and dumb, 
and if he went to school. Her answer in 
dumb motion was, " One — school not yet — 
London." Interpreted, this meant, " I have 
a brother who has not yet gone to school. 
He is in London." To develop language, 
the silently taught children are made to 
write fully a description of the actions of 
the teacher ; the oral pupils, of course, 
learn language by speech. Dr. Elliott 
points to his hat, places it on his head, 
and tells a class of girls to write. Two 
make the mistake of saying that " he 
placed the hat in his head," and it is not the 
simplest thing in the world to show them 
the difference between " in " and " on." The 
junior oral classes are both sides of the classes 
where the children are taught by signs. The 
noise they make momentarily suggests that 
it must be very distracting for the teachers 
and pupils in the intervening room. One 
forgets that neither teacher nor pupil by the 
sign system hears a sound, and that in the 
midst of the din they are in quiet. The best 
teachers of the deaf by signs are the deaf, I 
should say, just as the best leaders and 
teachers of the blind are blind. For the 
oral classes, of course, a teacher with ears 





and distinctness of delivery is indispensable. 
When the children reach him from the 
Old Kent-road, Dr. Elliott tries them orally, 
If, after the year's exhaustive trial to which 
they have already been subjected, he corms 
to the conclusion j,hat the child is incapable 
of doing any good under that system, he puts 
it to a sign class. Many who are treated 
thus could, no doubt, be taught orally , if the 
teacher could give them continuous indi- 
vidual attention ; but in a large institution 
this r as has been said, is impossible. More- 
over, the time allowed is barely sufficient 
to enable everything desirable to be done 
with the most promising. Parents naturally 
are very anxious that their children should 
be taught to speak, and the joy of a mother 
and father who send their child to the 
Asylum a mute, and receive it back years 
later with a voice, and an eye which is a 
fair substitute for the ear. can welt be 
imagined. Sometimes, however, all the 
patience and ingenuity of man are incapable 
of teaching the child to articulate, and in 
this case, if the parents have set their heart 
on the oral system, the disappointment is 
terribly keen. One child I saw cannot get 
beyond a squeak which, heard in the dark, 
would be taken for that of a mouse. Dr, 
Elliott put her into a sign class, but the 
sorrow of the mother induced him to give 
the little one another trial. The experi- 
ment is more considerate for the mother 
than the child, who is, I should venture tj 

Digitized by \^QOgJV 

say, undoubtedly, 
orally hopeless. A 
visit to the gym- 
nasium, where the 
girls shown in 
the accompanying 
picture went 
tli rough a variety 
of difficult exer- 
dses in a manner 
which frequently 
compelled my un- 
heard applause, 
was particularly 
interesting. What 
a Spartan race 
English women 
would be if they 
were all trained 
to the muscular 
exercise which the 
deaf girls at Mar- 
gate undergo! It 
is not surprising 
to hear that they 

give the visiting medical man of the 

Asylum very little to do, 

After dinner at one o'clock, the boys had 

some dumb-bcJl and club practice. They 

are well disciplined by a teacher who takes 




pride in his work, but to me the most 
attractive, as it was also the most amusing, 
feature of the performance was the presence 
of the Huh; lad, Rv^n Williams, Such a mite, 
standing three feet high at most, would 
under ordinary conditions not be permitted 
to take part in this exercise. The lad 
watched the class one day, however } made 
a speda] appeal to the teacher to be allowed 
to join it, and, with a dignity and a precision 
quite touching, he imitates every movement 
of body and swing of the arms of the in- 
structor. He should prove a born athlete, 
wee as his frame is at present. The girls 
also practise with dumb-bells, and one of 

teacher then told them to write u Mr, Sal- 
mon." The majority spelt the name cor- 
rectly : two spelt it tl Sammon," and one 
" Simon." At Dr, Elliott's request I 
dictated a sentence, Every eye in the class 
was on the alert, as I said the first thing 
that occurred tome: ^ It is a very fine day/* 
Pencils went to wi>rk with eager rapidity, 
and in a minute all slates were turned for 
my inspection. They all had the words right , 
except one or two who left out the 4b a/* 
I said several other things, which were read 
from my lips without difficulty. Address- 
ing a girl t the offspring of deaf and dumb 
parents, Dr. Elliott said: — 

go to 


the most skilful of them is Rhoda Pippeck, 
who is depicted with little Evan in our 

The next thing to be seen is an advanced 
oral class, made up of girls and boys of ages 
ranging from 12 to 15. They all rise 
respectfully as Dr. Elliott and I enter 
the room* They are in the midst of a 
lesson in writing from dictation, and, when 
they have resumed their seats/ Dr. Elliott 
introduces me : *■ This is Mr. Salmon," he 
says, u who is going to write an article for 
The Strand Magazine on ths Asylum." 
One or two pupils seemed to have missed 
what he said f but most of them smiled as 
they followed the words, and one boy said 

interrogatively, " Mr, 


n? " 

M Did 
school ? f1 
" No, sir/' 
* 4 Then is your 
mother ignorant?" 

"Now sir." 
■ "Is she clever?" 
"Yes, sir." 
"And yet you 
to school ? " 

I thought this 
would probably 
be more than the 
child would fol- 
low ; but, after 
an instant's reflec- 
tion, the answer 
was given : — 

"Her father 
taught her." 

u Your grand - 
fai her taught your 
mother ?" 
u Yes, sir." 
There could be 
no question about the genuineness of all 
this, or of the thought the child brought 
to bear on the subject. Great emulation 
exists among the scholars, and when, as 
frequently happens, one makes a stupid 
reply, the others laugh good-naturedly and 
with a full appreciation of the fun. 

Shortly after the inspection of this class, 
prayer time arrived, and the last I saw o1 
the deaf children at Margate who are taught 
on the oral system, was in a large room, 
The girls, two deep, were ranged down 
one side and th- boys up the other. All 
eyes were fixed on Dr. Elliott as he stood 
at the table and :\;ad several short prayers. 
The il Amen " to each came distinctly and 
The promptly, and then Hlfc Lord's Prayer was 




repeated by the entire body. If I did not 
catch every word, I can only say that it is 
but seldom that one can catch every word 
even when the prayer is uttered by a con- 
gregation more fortunately placed. 

By way of contrast to this final experi- 
ence at Margate^ I lost no time on my 
return to town in attending the Deaf and 
Dumb Church in Oxford-street. Here the 
service is silent, and never was silence so 
eloquent. A congregation which gives ex- 
pression to the prayers at its heart through 
the fingers, which 
sings hymns by signs, 
which follows a ser- 
mon not a word of 
which is spoken aloud, 
and a church without 
an organ and without 
a choir, are a novelty 
indeed. For two hours 
every Sunday morn- 
ing and evening there 
is a service during 
which not a sound 
save a cough T or whis- 
per from the altar, is 
to be heard* A strange 
feeling of incompe- 
tency conies over the 
visitor who is blessed 
with ears as he kneels, 
but only dimly com- 
prehends the meaning 
of the prayer, as he 
stands up to a hymn 
which is not vocalised, 
as he regards the 
wonderful variety of 
motions by means of 
which the chaplain 
delivers a sermon 
some twenty minutes 
in length. The 
church is in charge 
of the Rev. Dn William Stainer— the 
acting chaplain, as he facetiously styles 
himself— a brother of Sir John Stainer, the 
great musician. Curious it is that one 
should have made himself famous through 
the medium of sound and the other 
should have devoted himself to the world 
to which sound is a meaningless term. Dr. 
Stainer is one of the most self-sacrificing of 
men. Whilst this year is the centenary of 
the Old Kent-road Asylum, it is also the 
jubilee of Dr. Stainer's connection with the 
deaf and dumb. For fifty years he has 
laboured in their cause, and he has an 


by V^i 


ambition which few entertain but many 
realise. He wishes to die a poor man, and, 
seeing that a slice of his capital and a 
portion of his income go every year to 
the advancement of some work or other 
intended to benefit the deaf and dumb, he 
will certainly attain his ambition if he is 
spared. Dr, Stainer became a teacher in 
the Old Kent-road institution in 1842. 
Thence he migrated to Manchester, where 
there is one of the best deaf and dumb 
asylums in the world, and eventually he 
took holy orders for 
the sake of the 
afflicted, To write a 
record of his life would 
be to furnish more 
than one chapter in 
the history of the 
efforts made during 
the nineteenth cen- 
tury to ameliorate the 
lot of the deaf and 
dumb. In 1R72 he 
was appointed Chap- 
lain of the Royal 
Society for the Deaf 
and Dumb in Oxford- 
street, the position he 
now holds, and in 
1874 he was induced 
by the authorities of 
the School Board for 
London to take in 
hand the great w r ork 
of providing for the 
education of the hun- 
dreds of deaf and 
dumb who were, on 
account of their in- 
firmity! allowed to 
go uneducated. With 
this object he started 
centres of instruction 
for the deaf and dumb f 
and later a home where children who lived 
too far from any centre to attend daily 
might be kept from I.londay to Friday. 
To-day there are several homes in London 
which owe their existence to the initial 
energy of Dr, Stainer, To these homes are 
chiefly sent pauper children, some of the 
inmates having been actually found wander- 
ing in gutters like stray dogs, abandoned by 
those whose parental instinct was not strong 
enough to teach them a duty which even 
the lower animals observe. Most people in 
London probably know of Dr, Stainer's 
homes in the Pfmtonvilk-road. Her$ one 







finds again conditions differing from those 
which obtain both at Ealing and at Margate, 
The children are sent to Dr, Stainer from 
some sixty different Boards, and are mostly 
paid for by the Poor Law Guardians. 
Some of them go to Dr. Stainer-s homes as 
mere babes. He prefers to have them as 
young as possible, believing that education 
begun early is the most effectual. Whilst 
some of his charges are younger than any 
at Ealing or at Margate, he does something 
for the older ones which Dr, Elliott so 
far has not been able to do for his pupils. 
He has started workshops in which boys 
are taught bootmaking, tailoring, carpen- 
tering, wood carving, and other trades, 
and he is able in the course of time to 
ascertain what callings they are individually 
most suited for. Kindergarten and Slojd 
work naturally plays a considerable part in 
the curriculum at the Pentonville Homes. 
As regards the girls, they are taught every 
sort of domestic duty, laundry work, &c, 
so that, given the opportunity, they are 
fitted to accept places as servants, semp- 
stresses, laundry maids, &c. Let us take a 
peep first at the Latest arrivals. At the 
moment I saw them the little ones w T ere 
having their tea. There was no sort of 
shyness about the majority of them. Many 


greeted me with a smile ; one boy, not long 
since rescued from the streets, in his delight 
proved somewhat intractable, and one girl 
closed her hand and shook her thumb 
at me most vigorously. This I learned 
meant "good' ? ; whether that she con- 
sidered herself the good one of the bunch, 
or that it was good of me to come to see 
them, I do not know. The method of 
teaching is pretty much the same as at 
Margate, Those who can be taught to 
speak are taught, bu 1 : the conditions keep 
the number small* The workshops are the 
chief novelty in Dr. Stainer's homes. The 
boys seem to take great interest in their 
work, and some have proved not only 
efficient, but excellent workmen. One 
adjunct to the carpenters* room gave rise 
to an anecdote w T orth recording. A steam 
engine in the laundry beneath is used for 
the purposes of the saw- bench and the 
turning-kit he. The boys have learnt that 
the broad belt of leather which comes up 
through the floor is moved by the machinery 
below. There was lying on the floor part 
of a tree trunk. They know that trees 
come out of the ground, and being asked 
how they grow, they conclude that the 
same sort of hidden power forces them up. 
The forces of Nature are not easily made 
comprehensible to thorn. In 
the same way they are not 
readily convinced that the 
stars are not holes in the 
heavens, and are only visible 
when the lights on the other 
side are lit. Space, time, 
and abstract ideas generally 
are beyond the majority of 
people who can hold hourly 
communion with their fel- 
lows. What wonder 
that they should be 
almost wholly be- 
yond the deaf ? 

The deaf mute, 
all unconscious of 
his great infirmity 
as he is, is a very 
superior person. 
There \> a consensus 
of opinion bearing 
out this statement. 
Those people who 
are ready to regard 
the deaf and dumb 
as stupid would be 
well advised some- 
times to take care 




that the deaf and dumb have not already 
made up their minds to regard their visitors 
in the light of the stupid party. Many 
years ago Dr. Stainer recollects coming 
upon two deaf "and dumb boys 
at the Old Kent- road, watching 
some hearing boys playing in the 
street. One of the former said 
to the other : " What stupid boys 
they are. They do not know 
how to talk to each other 
as we do ; they can only 
make signs with their lips. 1 ' 
The deaf and dumb are 
very much of the 
view of the tribe 
of North American 
Indians, who, 
though in posses- 
sion of all their 
faculties, were re- 
puted to seldom 
open their lips. 
They regarded 
signs as the natural 
means of communis 
cation. In one re- 
spect the deaf and 
dumb have an ad- 
vantage over the hearing world, From 
whatever cause, they show, in most cases, 
an extraordinary indifference to pain, The 
matron at the Margate Asylum, in response 
to my inquiry on this point, assured me 
that where one would have the greatest 
difficulty in getting an ordinary child to 
have a tooth out, the deaf and dumb will 
have three or four out, with not so much 
as a protest. To pull three or four, or even 
five out at a sitting was indeed a constant 
practice, until mere humanity compelled 
her to forbid it- 
Wonderful as are the results which have 
I>een achieved in the education of the deaf 
and dumb on both the oral and the sign 
systems, I cannot conclude this account 
of how it is done without some reference to 
an achievement more wonderful than either. 
It is a work difficult enough in all eon- 
science to educate the blind or the deaf and 
dumb ; but, unless one actually know?* of a 
case where a child, practically born deaf* 
dumb, and blind, ha* been educated* it is 
simply incredible that beings so absolutely 
isolated can be made to know the mean- 
ing or things both material and spiritual 
Yet it has been done in America and 
England several times. Readers of Dickens's 
"American Notes 1 ' will remember the 

gitized by GoOgie 

pathetic and beautiful account he gives 
of Laura Bridgman ; how, having a fever 
shortly after birth, she- was left deprived of 
eyes, ears, and almost smell, and in conse- 
quence was doomed to 
dumbness ; how -he was 
taken in hand by Dr. Howe, 

and how, after years of care, she 
was taught to know more than 
many a fairly educated seeing 
and hearing being knows, What Dr. Howe 
did in America, Mr. Andrew Patterson, the 
late devoted head master of the Manchester 
Institution, did in England. He came 
across a little girl who had been abandoned 
in a dark and damp cellar when some two 
or three years of age. The news of Dr. 
Howe's success induced Mr, Patterson to try 
his hand with Mary Bradley. Removing 
her from the school where, poor helpless 
mortal, she was driven nearly mad by the 
teasing and cruelty of the other chil- 
dren, Mr. Patterson put her in a room 
alone to see what she would do. She 
immediately occupied herself in finding 
out with her hands where she was. When 
he started to teach her, he took some object > 
a pen, say, and then made the signs for 
" pen n on her fingers. By repeating this 
day after day t with a variety of things, 
he hoped to make the imprisoned brain 
realise that there was some connection 
between the signs and the object. Rut no 
apparent success attended his efforts. One 
week, two weeks, three weeks, four went by, 
and Mary Bradley's mind seemed as blank 
as at the hour they started, when suddenly, 
one day, her face brightened. She under- 
stood at last ! A breach had been made in 
the wall which h^dsreJ her in, u She had 




found the key to the mystery/* says a writer 
who, twenty years ago t published an account 
of Mr. Patterson's great work in a brochure 
which few, except specialists, possess pro- 
bably to-day. " Placing her hand on each 
of the objects separately t she gave the name 
of each on her fingers, or rather signed 
them on the fingers of her teacher, as her 
mode of describing them," What a 
moment for the teacher ! What unutter- 
able joy must have suffused his heart as he 
realised that he had found a way to an im- 
prisoned brain and a human soul ! He 
instantly cut out the letters of the alphabet 
in cardboard, and when in time he had 
made her understand the meaning of these, 
he got a case of type which she learnt to 
compose into words. He taught her to write, 
and she actually wrote to and received 
letters from Laura Bridgman. Like her, 
she was very quick and eager to learn ; and, 
when a boy similarly afflicted was sent to 
Mr. Patterson, she took the greatest interest 
in assisting in the lad's educa- 
tion. As they got to know 
each ether the two became close 
iriends. Sometimes they would 
be sitting together talking with 
their fingers, when Mr. Patter- 
son tried to approach them 
unobserved. The boy invari- 
ably warned his companion 
that Mr. Patterson was coming. 
They never confused one 
person with another, and 
their memories were re- 

As example is better 
than precept, so I hope 
the facts contained in this 
article will point a moral 
which it is impossible 
now to enforce at any 

length. A hundred years ago, De I'Eptfe 
is reported to have given utterance to two 
opinions : firsts that the world will never 
learn to talk on its fingers in order to have 
the pleasure of conversing with the deaf 
and dumb ; second, that the only means 
of restoring the deaf and dumb completely 
to society is to teach them to hear with 
their eyes and to express themselves viva 
voce. The case for the pure oral system 
could not be more pithily stated than in 
these views of one who found it necessary 
to rely absolutely on signs. 

The Royal Commission which rit three 
or four years ago on the subject, issued a 
report containing several noteworthy re- 
commendations, Every deaf child must be 
educated, was the moral of these. It was 
hoped the Government would give effect to 
these proposals last year ; but they did not get 
beyond the printing of a BilL Brave men 
and women have in their private capacity 
devoted their lives, and often their incomes, 
to the indigent and the poor deaf 
mute, and upon such Christian 
en e rgy e ver y t h i ug h as d e pen dccl , 
This is not as it should be, and 
the Government have it in their 
power to do a just and generous 
as well as a wise and politic 
thing. Experience has shown 
what, under proper conditions, 
the oral system can accomplish, 
and any Bill which as- 
sists the reduction of 
the number of deaf 
mutes will conduce to 
the advantage of indi- 
viduals by making them 
more self-dependent and 
to the advantage of the 
State by adding to the 
number of capable citi- 



by Google 

Original from 

Clouds with Silver Linings, 

Adapted from the French of Mme. de Girakdih, bv James Mortimer. 

Dramatis Persons. 

ADRIEN des Aubiers {a young French 


Lucien {his friend). 

Noel (an old family servant), 

Madame des Auuirrs. 

Blanche [her daughter). 

Mathilde de Pierrrval {betrothed to 

Ad r ten). 
The Scene is laid at a Chateau near 
Bordeaux* during the Franco- German war 
of 1870-71. 

Scene. — A well furnished drawing-room^ 
with folding-doors c, opening into a corridor; 
Window with heavy curtains l.u.e, Door 
RJi.E. Fireplace with fire L. Table with 
drawing materials L,c, Easy chair R.c\ 
Small work table r., with lady's work basket 
containing wooi f a key, &V. Couch !*€, 

(As the curtain rises t Madame des 
Auhjkks discovered seated in an arm- 
chair k>, with Berlin wool work in her 
hands ; Blanche is seated on a stool 
at Madame des Aubiers J feet At the 
back* Luciem is seated on the sofa L., 
wftfi a book in his hand, which he pre- 
tends to read, though really fur- 
tively watching Mathilde, who 
is at the table l.c., drawing in 
an album. The three ladies are 
in deep mourning. After the 
curtain rises, there is a mo- 
mentary silence, Madame des 
Aubiers sighs, and lets her em- 
broidery fall from her hands , 
Blanche turns round and looks 
at her mother sadly, then rises, 
wipes away the fears from Ma- 
dame des Aubiers' eyes, and 
kisses her. Blanche takes a 
step towards Lucien, who rises, 
Blanche (glancing out at the win- 
dow), — The storm seems to have 
cleared away, and the sun is shining. 
But what a fearful night it was ! 
The wind btew dreadfully 

think of the poor fishermen who went 
out to sea yesterday morning ! 

Lucien. — The hurricane was so violent 
that the great elm in front of Widow 
Gervaise's cottage T on the beach, was blown 

Blanche {aside to Lucien). — Hush } 
Don't mention the name of Gervaise in 
mamma's hearing, She has lost her son, 
too. He was a sailor, and it is now more 
than a year since Gervaise had any tidings 
of him. 

Lucien (aside to Blanche), — Indeed ? I 
did not know the widow had any children. 

Blanche (as before). — Yes, an only son 
— a fine young fellow, who is supposed to 
have been lost at sea. We never mention 




Gervaise's name now ; it always makes 

mamma cry since — you know (weeps). 

Lucien. — My poor dear friend. So full 
of life and gaiety, here, a few short months 
ago, and now gone for ever. (Turns away 
and throws himself on the sofa l.) ■ 

( While Lucien has been speaking, 

Blanche has approached Mathilde, 

and now looks over her shoulder.) 

Blanche. — Oh ! how like him. The 

same smile, the same proud air. My poor, 

poor brother! Then you still love him, 

Mathilde ? 

Mathilde. — Love him ! Can you ask 
me? (Looks a/ Blanche steadfastly.) When 
you are sad, dear, your eyes are the image of 
Adrien's (kisses her). But for this dread- 
ful war, we should have been happily 
married now (weeps)! 

Blanche (aside, stealing d glance at 
Lucien). — He does not take his eyes from 

Enter Noel, c. He closes the door 

gently and glances at Madame des 

Aubiers, who remains motionless in 

the easy chair.) 

Noel (in a low voice). — Mamzelle 


Blanche (going toward him). — What is 
it, Noel ? 

Noel. — Monsieur Durand has come 
about the old wall that has fallen down at 
the back of the garden. He wishes to 
speak to Madame. 

Blanche. — Very well (she takes a step 
toward 'Madame and then returns to Noel). 
Has he brought the plan for the new stables 
I asked him to prepare ? 

Noel (in a low voice). — Yes, Mamzelle. 
He says it will be a very easy matter. Try 
to obtain your mamma s consent, and then 
you can persuade her afterwards to go out 
and see how the masons and carpenters get 
on with their work. In that way Madame 
will breathe a little fresh air and walk about 
a bit. It will be that much gained, at any 

Madame (shaking off her reverie). — Is 
that you, Noel ? 

Noel. — Yes, Madame. I was just speak- 
ing to Mamzelle Blanche. I hope I have 
not disturbed Madame ? 
Madame. — No. What is it, Noel ? 
Blanche (turning towards Madame). — 
Mamma, Noel here insists upon the absolute 
necessity — eh, Noel ? 

Noel. — Oh yes, Mamzelle Blanche. 
Blanche. — The absolute necessity of 
your speaking in person to Monsieur 

Durand, about the new stables it was decided 
to build six months ago, before my poor 
brother — that is, when Adrien was with 
us. I have told him over and over again 
that you have quite abandoned the idea, that 
you don't wish to be troubled with any such 
affair. But Noel is so obstinate, you know, 
mamma, he won't listen to me at all. He 
says Monsieur Durand has prepared all the 
plans according to my brother's own direc- 
tions — eh, Noel ? 

Noel. — Yes, Mamzelle Blanche. (Aside) 
She's an artful one, the dear child ! 

Blanche. — And has now come fe show 
them to you. Besides, Noel says the work 
will cost a mere nothing. 

Noel (comes down c.) — Nothing, Ma- 
dame — or next to it, at least. 

Madame. — Noel, go say to Monsieur 
Durand that I will join him in the garden. 

(Exit Noel, c.) 
(7b Blanche) Come, dear. 

(Exeunt Madame and Blanche, c.) 

Lucien (rises and closes the door). — Alone 
with her at last. 

(He approaches Mathilde, who sud- 
denly rises and stand motionless.) 
Oh, listen to me, I implore you, if only 
for one moment. I am about to return to 
Bordeaux, and shall see your father. Let 
me tell him that you will soon return home. 

Mathilde (coldly). — I have already told 
you that it is my intention to remain here. 

Lucien. — But your parents — your family. 

Mathilde. — My family is that of the 
man who was to have been my husband. 

Lucien. — I respect your sentiment in 
coming here ; but it is now five months 
since Adrien fell at Gravelotte, ancP^ 

Mathilde. — Well, sir, if I were his 
widow, it would be my right and my duty 
to mourn for him all my life. To think 
that he is dead — dead ! 

(She leans her elbows on the table, 
buries her face in her hands, and 

Lucien. — Why, then, did he not resign 
when this war broke out ? Why did he 
leave you if he loved you ? 

Mathilde. — He was a true Frenchman, 
sir, and a soldier. 

Lucien. — During the long years of his 
military studies in Paris, you never met 
him, or thought of him, save as a childish 
playmate. I loved you even then, and you 
were not angry with me. 

Mathilde (scornfully). — No — I laughed 
at you. 

Lucien.— Pitiless girl ! ■ 





Mathilde. — You 
desire to console nie. 
Do you not feel, 
what bitterness 
there is for me in 
the very thought 
that you presume 
to hope ? 

Lucien {suppiii ah 
ing), — Mathilde I 

AIathildf. — Do 
not approach me, 
sir* I detest and 
despise you. 
(She pushes open door c, and goes out 
hurriedly, Ngel is discovered with a 
feather dusting-hrmk in fits hand.) 
Lucien. — Mathilde, pity ire I {Comes 
down k.) Must 1, then, abandon her to 
this terrible despair that is killing her ? 

(Enter Noel, c. He puts down his 
brush on the sofa L,, and doses the 
Noel, — What is the matter ? Why do 
you torment the poor young lady ? 
Lucien. — I wish to console hen 
Noel, — But she won't be consoled. 
Excuse me, Monsieur Lucien, but you 
have no right to fall in love with Mamzelle 

Lucien. — You are right, Noel, and I 
must try to forget her. (Rises,) 

Nofl.— Besides, there are lots of other 
pretty girl* in the world. What's the use 

Digiliz&d byLx* 

of hanging on after one who doesn't care 
about you ? 

Lucien, — Yes p I will leave here to-night, 

Noel (dissatisfied).— Leave here ! What 

Lucien, — She hates the sight of me, 

Noel. — Well, there are others who don't. 

LuciKN. — What do you mean ? 

Noel, — I mean that there are people to 
whom the sight of you is extremely agree- 
able. To me, for example ; and to Madame ; 
and to Mamzelle Blanche, too. Ah ! she'll 
be a treasure for somebody ! 

Luc i en. —Yes, she will be a very hand- 
some woman 

Noel, — Will be ! (Aside.) I wonder 
what his notion of a pretty woman is ? 

Lucien. — She is very amiable and sen- 
sible, too. 

Nokl. — That she is, and well educated, 
and such a lively disposition when there 1 s 
no sorrow on her heart, poor thing. Ah ! 
if somebody should endeavour to console 
her % I don't think he'd get the sack. (A 
pause—aside.) The great booby doesn't 

Lucien {up stage). — Noel, I shall be in 
Bordeaux to-morrow. 

Noel. — What ! You leave me, then, to 
look after three women in despair ? 

Lucien. — If anything serious should 
happen, send for me at once, Old friend- 
ship almost makes me one of the family. 

Noel. — There are several ways of taing 
one of the family, 

Lucien (coining down), — Yes, close asso- 
ciation, time-honoured intimacy 

Noel (aside), — What a stupid dolt ! 

Lucien, — Adrien treated me always a* a 
brother, and I will be a son to his mother, 

Noel, — Just what I most desire. 

Lucien* — Now I must go get ready to 
leave this evening, 

(Exit c.) 

Noel. — Poor fellow ; it's not his fault if 
he doesn't see that our little Blanche is in 
love with him, though, I must confess, I do 
wonder at it myself. But then, women are 
such a funny lot ; luckily, I never troubled 
my head about any of them. 

(Enter Blanche, c, with handker- 
chief to her eyes.) 
Ah ! here she comes — and crying again, of 
course. What is the matter now, Mamzelle 
Blanche ? You promised me not to cry 
any more. (He doses door c.) 

Blanche. — I caiVt help it. Do you 
remember that lovely tea rose, that my poor 
brother planted last summer ? 

Well, it is 





in full bloom, all of a sudden like, and he 
not here to — to— (sobbing) — have one in — 
in — {sobs) — -his buttonhole. (Sits in chair 
L. T at table.) 

Nohl (angry). — What childishness ! (ffb 

sits down beside her y produces a large ban- 
dana handkerchief and wipes Iter eyes) 
There (soothing), don't cry any more. Why, 
bless you t that kind of thing happens every 
day almost. Somebody you love plants a 
rosebush, and by and by, when the person 
who — planted it ( faltering) has gone away 
— it blossoms, maybe — and you pluck a 
rose — anybody might pluck a rose, you 
know — it's not a thing to cry about. 
(Breaks down and cries) Nonsense ! I'm 
blubbering myself, now. Come, come, 
Mamzelle Blanche. Take heart — do try. 
Remember that another terrible disaster 
threatens us ; your mother's health is fail- 
ing, and I fear if something is not done, 
grief will kill her. 

Blanche. — Oh, Noel ! But what can I 

Noel.— Why, in the first place, you 
must try to set her a cheerful example. 

Blanche, — Well, so I do try. But I 
can't, (Sobs) The tears will come and 
choke nic, I do my best to gulp them 
down, but they won't stay down. 

Noel,— Well, now, dry your eyes and go 
back to your mamma* Try to smile and 

invent something pleasant to tell her. For 
instance, just suppose that a nice young 
man comes all of a sudden to ask your 
hand in marriage. 
Blanche, — A nice young man, did you 

say ? 

Nokl. — Oh, I 
didn't refer tu 
Master Lucien. 

Blanche {juy- 
otts), — Monsieur 
LudefL Oh, how 
delightful ! that 
is— no, I don't 
mean that. 

Nokl. — Never 
mind your mean- 
ing. The smile 
— the old smile 
we all loved so 
well has c o in e 
back, and I am 
happy. So will 
your mamma be, 
when she sees it, 
and that is far 
more important. 

Blanch k.— 
Oh, Noel, Noel ! 
Yuu are so good, 
so kind. You 
try to give us all 
fresh courage, and to cheer us up, and I 
love you dearly — indeed I do. Then you 
are so tender in taking care of poor dear 
mamma, and so patient. Oh, I don't say 
anything, but I see it all, and will never 
forget it — never. (Nqkl weeps) There, 
now, Mr Growler, who's crying now, Fd 
like to know ? 

Nqkl, — What do you talk to me in that 
way for, if I'm not to make an old fool of 
myself ? 

Blanchk. — I only said you were good 
and true, did I ? I might have added that 
you are very clever, too— yes, and si v. 
Noel.— I ? 
Blanche, — And in spite of your stupid 


Noel, — Have 1 a stupid look, then ? 
Blanchk.— You fathom mysterious se- 
crets, that nobody knows anything about. 
You read people's thoughts. 
Noel. — Whose thoughts ? 
Blahche, — If you can't guess, I shall not 
say another word, 

Noel, — But then, I'm so stupid you 


Blanche.— Oh, not always. 



Noel. — -Well, then, tell me- 

Blanche. — No. Remember, you said I 
must go back to mamma. So good-bye. 
(Pa uses ^ and then returns, whispers,) Of 
course, you have not mentioned this to 
anyone ? 

Nokl {pretending ignorance whispers). — 
Mentioned what ? 

Blanche [whispers). — Hush ! Your dis- 

Noel* — Shh ! No. 

Blanche. — And of course you won't? 
Mamma mustn't know it, for the world. It 
would make her still sadder. And then, on 
the other hand, Noel, think of my dignity. 

Noel. — And, again, I may be mistaken, 

Blanche {quickly). — But you're not. 

Noel (the same). — Then you confess it, 
do you ? 

Blanche. — I confess nothing. Good-bye, 

(Exit c, the door closing behind her.) 

Noel (alone). — Ah ! that's the girl for 
me ! There is some life in her, and no 
sentimental humbug. {He throws open the 
window L.) What do I care for women 
that talk poetry and politics, and write 
books, and have a notion that they ought 
to have been born men ? Not that ! (Snaps 
his fingers*) Now, there's Mamzelle 
Mathildc (he pushes the table hack lx.) they 
all make so much fuss and wonder about ; 
she's entirely beyond me. I don't under- 
stand her. I suppose it's because she's a 
genius. {Places an arm-chair at r. istE.) 
As a rule, I think young women — and old 
women, too — have no business to be 
geniuses ; and if anything makes me for- 
give Mamzelle de Pierreval, here, for being 
so vastly clever, it is that she has drawn 
such a life-like picture of my dear boy, 
although I must say she has given him a 
serious, solemn look he never had — I mean f 

a solemn look he 
iasn% for they 

may all say what 
they like, I can't 
bring myself to 
believe' he is 
dead. It's no 
use showing me 
his uniform all 
stained with 
blood and pierced 
with bullet -holes, 
or the letters and 
papers found in 
his pockets — I 
say still, that 
proves just nothing at all, (He turns over 
the sofa cushions.) When I think of all 
his miraculous escapes as a child, I cannot 
believe that Providence would abandon 
him even on the battle-field. One day — 
I remember he wasn't more than five 
years old — we were having a game of 
touch in this very room, and, in running 
away from me, what must he do bu, get 
over the balcony outside that window. 
(Piints*) I was almost wild with terror, 
for I thought, of course, he was killed 
— poor little fellow ! I rushed to the bat- 
cony, looked over with a shudder, and 
what did I see ? There was my young 
scapegrace, with his little frock caught in 
one of the iron supports of the window, 
and holding on with his tiny hands to the 
balcony railings. "You won't catch me, 
Noel/' he says, merrily; "it wouldn't be 
fair play, you know*" And now they 
want me to believe that the pitiless in- 
vaders of our unhappy France have de- 
stroyed his young life. Never ! The 
thing is not possible, and my mind's per- 
fectly easy. The ladies may mourn for 
him, but / won't. I expect him home, 
I may say, every day. 

(The door c. is opened } and Adrien 
appears in uniform. He stops to listen.) 
If he should come this very minute it 
wouldn't surprise me a bit. I can almost 
hear his merry voice exclaiming, as he 
used to when he came home from a day's 
shooting or fishing, " Now, then, Noel, let's 
have a bit of lunch ; I'm almost famished." 
Adrien. — Now, then, Noel, let's have a 
bit of lunch ; Tin almost famished ! (He 
tosses his cap on the table l,c., and comes 
down C.) 

Noel (staggering), — Good heavens ! 
Adrien. — Why, what's the matter, 
Noel ? Why do you look so strangely at 






me ? Did you not expect me, then ? (Noel 
staggers and falls into A dr lex's arms). 
Why, Noel ! Noel ! Don't you know me ? 
It is I , Adriem 

Noel {sobbing \ and then recovering 
slowly).- — Oh T my dear, dear boy ! I am so 
happy, {Clasps Adrien in his arms) 

Adrikn {after a pause), — But, Noel, I 
don't understand all this. Did you not 
receive my letter ? 

Noel. — No ; nothing has come. 

Adrien.* — It must have miscarried then. 
And my other letters from Germany ? I 
wrote to you, last month, that I had reco- 
vered from my wounds. 

Noel, — There ! What did I say ? So 
you were not killed, after all ? 

Adkien. — Killed I Do I look as if I had 
been killed ? But, Noel, my mother ? 

Noel. — The poor lady believes you dead. 

Adrikn.— Dead ? 

Noel, — -Yes, killed by the enemy* Good 
gracious, how are we to tell her of your 
safety ? 

Adrikn. — My poor dear mother. How 
I long to embrace her ! 

Noel.' — You frighten me at the bare idea. 
If she saw you now, she would fall dead on 
the spot. 

Adrien,— It was to avoid all this diffi- 
culty that I wrote to you from Brussels, 

Digitized by VjOOQ Ic 

where I made my way 
after escaping from Ger- 

Noel, — Hush ! I hear 
her footstep on the stairs. 
Adrien. — My mother? 
Noel {listening). — 
Yes ; she has stopped to 
rest a moment. What's 
to be done ? Ah ! let's 
fasten the door. No, that 
would excite her suspi- 
cions - — Here ! help me 
to push the sofa against 
the door. 

( They push sofa 

against door v. Noel 

kneels on the sofa.) 

Madame {outside^ and 

trying to open the door). 

—Noel ! 

Adrikn.— Her voice ! 
My dear, dear mother ! 

Madame (outside, call- 
ing). — Noel ! 

Noel (aside). — I must 
answer- (Aloud) I 
thought you were gone 
for a walk, Madame, so I took advantage 
to dust the drawing-room a bit. Shall I 
move the sofa back and let you in ? 
There's an awful cloud of dust here ! 

Madame. — Never mind, then. I only 
came for my volume of " Lamar tine, 1 ' you 
will find it on the table. Give it me. 

Adrikn {aside— taking hook from table 
l,c.)* — One of my own books. {Kisses it) 
Noel.— Yes, Madame, 

(He remains on the sofa^ and makes 
signs to Adrien, who tremblingly passes 
the book £0 Madame through the door 
ajar, in spite of Noel's indignant by- 
Is that it, Madame ? 

Madame {outside). — Yes, thanks. 

(Noel peeps cautiously through the 
door to see that she has gone y and then 
falls on the sofa,) 
Noel. — Phew ! I'm all in a cold perspira- 
tion (sits). 

Adrien {at window). — How pale, how 
changed she is ! 

Noel ( f u Ring him a way) > — I ' m ch a n ge d t 
too. My hair has all turned grey — what 
there is of it, 

Adrien, — And I cannot clasp her in my 

{Turns towards tlte window and holds 
out his arms ^^\ from 




Nokl (interposing).- — For the present Just 
ela^p me in your anus, if that'll do you any 
good. (Adkikn hugs him.) Hush ! some- 
one is coming again- This time 141 lock 
the door* (Locks door c) 

Blanche (knocking outside c*). — Noel ! 
Nokl [aside to AnkiEx). — It f s your sister, 
Aiirikx. — Dear little Blanche. 
Blanche (outside)* — Noel ! 
Noel. — Pooh, pooh ! What should we 
fear ? I'll just prepare her for an agreeable 
surprise. Go hide behind the curtain there, 
(Adrien conceals himself.) 

Blanche (outside), — What are you mut- 
tering Lo yourself about ? Do open the 
Nokl, — Yes, Mamzelle Blanche. 

(He draws aside the sofa, and un- 
locks the door. He then commences 
dusting the chairs } humming a tune in 
a tow voice) 
Blanche (entering c.). — Why did you 
lock yourself itij Noel ? 

Nokl, — Why, so that the dust shouldn't 
get out, 

Blanche. — A new idea of yours, I must 

Nokl (aside). — What nonsense I do talk. 
(Aland) To keep the dust in, I mean, 

Blanche. — Don't be absurd. Mamma 
has gone for a stroll, with Mathilde. Poor 
mamma docs look so ill. 

Nokl — Oh, very ill, Mamzelle Blanche 
—very ill, indeed. (Hums a tune) 

Blanche— Why, Noel, what has hap- 
pened to you ? 

Noel. — Me? Nothing. (Hums.) 
Blanchk. — I speak to you about poor 
mamma, and you actually commence sing* 
ing, I never heard the like before. It's 
not natural. Something has happened, 
Vm sure. 

Nokl, — I do look rather queer, don't I ? 
Well, mamzelle, if the truth must be told, 
I do feel a little flustered. I've just re- 
ceived a piece of extraordinary news, that's 

Blanche, — Good news ? 
Nokl, — Excellent. 
Blanche. — For me ? 
Nokl, — Yes, and for me, too. For all 
of us. 

Blanche. — Oh, Noel, what is it ? 

Nokl. — Guess. 

Blanche. — About Adrien ? 

Noel. — You commence to burn, 

Blanchk, — He has been heard from ? 

Noel* — Now you are scorching. 

Blanche.— Oh, my dear, dear brother ! 

d ooglc 

There, tell me all t that's a dear N<*eL You 
needn't be a bit afraid, I can Mand it. 
I've got such a head, you know. 

Nokl.— Without any fainting or non- 
sense ? 

Blanche. — I faint? Did you ever see 
me faint ? 

Noel.— I never did— that's true. Well, 
then, mamzelle — 

Blanche, — He's here — alive? 

Noel. — He is — and safe and well, 

Blanche.- — Oh ! what joy for mamma. 
( Catting) Adrien ! Adrien! Where are you? 

Aim [en (comes out). — Not dead, Hub 
sister, but dying — to kiss you. 

Blanche. — You may, I don't believe 
you are a ghost. 
(Adrien runs and lifts her in his arms.) 

Aim ien (kisses her), — My own darling 
little Blanche ! (Looks at her,) Why, how 
pretty the minx has grown. (Kisses her) 

Blanche. — Oh ! mamma will be so happy, 
and so will our poor Mathilde, and all of us, 

Noel. — To begin, then T Master Adrien, 
you must be concealed somewhere, at once, 
(To Blanche) If we only had the key of his 

Blanche. — Mamma always keeps it in 
her own possession. Stop ! Here is her 
work-basket. The key may be in it. 
(Rummages in basket) And here it is. 




(Shows key!) How lucky ! isn't it ? (She 
runs to door r.u.e., and opens it with key) 
Now, sir, walk into prison, if you please. 

Adrien (at the door R.). — My own little 
room ! and in such perfect order. My 
books, my maps — everything in its place. 

Noel. — Just as it didn't use to be. 

Adrien (to Blanche). — Do you hear this 
spiteful old Noel ? Why, I do believe he 
has had my geometrical drawings all framed 
and hung around the walls. 

Blanche (pretends to look in). — Dear me ! 
So he has ! Go and admire them. 
(she pushes Adrien in and locks door r.u.e.) 

Adrien (outside). — You don't mean to say 
I'm to be locked in ? 

Blanche. — Make haste to get him some 
luncheon, Noel, that's a duck! Oh, what 
fun we shall have ! And how jolly it is not 
to cry any more, and not to wear this horrid 
black dress. I shall put on my tarletan 
dress this very evening, and wear those 
tea roses in my hair. I could almost dance 
for joy. Tra-ia-la ! (dances) 

Noel. — Mamzelle Blanche, you shouldn't 
dance about in that way. Suppose Madame 
were to come in now ! 

Blanche. — Oh, there's no danger. And 
if I didn't do something I should explode ; 
I'm sure I should. To think he is there, 
and so handsome, too ! 

Noel. — That he is. Almost as handsome 
as Master Lucien, isn't he ? 

Blanche. — Noel, it's very spiteful of you 
to tease me. You're a wicked old man. 

Noel. — I'm so happy, I can't help 
teasing you a bit. It's my way of dancing, 
you know. But now we must be serious, 
and devise some means of breaking thii 
glorious news to your mamma. 

Blanche. — Oh, I don't give the matter a 
thought. All I fear is that I shall not look 
miserable enough ; I couldn't do it. 

Noel. — You certainly haven't a very 
sorry appearance just now. 

Blanche. — And you look as happy as a 

Noel. — A nice pair we are. 

Blanche. — Your eyes alone are sure 
to betray us. You don't know how they 

Noel.— Do they, though? Then I'll 
keep winking, so that it shan't be noticed. 
( Crosses to window l.) Ah ! there they 
come, across the lawn. (Going) Remem- 
ber, Mamzelle Blanche, this is the dangerous 

Blanche. — You don't mean to leave me 
alone with Jw? 

Noel. — But I do, though. I could never 
conceal my feelings. It takes a woman to 
dissimulate, you know. 

(Exit c.) 

Blanche (alone). — Noel ! Come back, 
you silly old man ! Poor mamma ! What 
if I throw my arms around her neck, and 
tell her the happy truth at once ? No, no : 
that would never do. It would kill her. 

(Enter Madame des Aubiers, c.) 

She goes to the easy -chair R, without 

seeing Blanche, throws her bonnet on 

table r.) 

(Approaching) Are you any better, mamma ? 

I fear you have walked too far, and have 

fatigued yourself. 

(She goes softly around her mother's 
chair j puts her arm round her neci } 
and kisses her) 

Madame. — Your stroll on the beach 
this morning did you good, dear. I cap 
almost fancy I see you smile. (Looks at her 
steadfastly.) I don't know why, but \\ 
seems to me you have a strange expression 
of the eyes. 

Blanche (confused). — I, mamma ? 

Madame. — Yes, dear. They appear 
brighter than usual, as if some pleasure had 
happened to you. 

Blanche. — Dear mamma, how well you 
guess everything! 

Madame. — Ah ! what has occurred, then ? 

Blanche (aside). — Oh, such an idea ! 
I will risk it, at all hazards. It may 
pave the way, and can do no harm, I'm 

Madame. — Sit down here, love, and tell 
me what has given you pleasure. 

Blanche (sitting on the stool at Madame's 
feet). — Well, mamma, I am both pleased 
and vexed. 

Madame. — At what ? 

Blanche. — Why, to think that such 
great joy can fall to the lot of people who 
don't deserve it, whilst you, dear mamma, 
so gentle, so good, are plunged in sorrow. 

Madame. — Alas, my child ! it is the will 
of Providence, and we have no right to 
envy the happiness of others. But to whom 
do you allude ? 

Blanche. — Why, to that unfeeling 
creature, Widow Gervaise, who forced her 
son to go to sea two years ago, to prevent 
him from marrying the girl of his choice, 
just because she was poor. 

Madame (anxiously)* — Well, dear, well ? 

Blanche. — You know, mamma, the 
young man was supposed to have perished 
in the Amfhitrite. 




Madame* — Supposed to have perished ? 
He did perish. 

Blanche.— Oh no, mamma ; he was 
saved, and has arrived in England in a 
merchant vessel from China. His mother 
heard from him to-day, and expects him 
home next week. 

Ma da m e. — G ood Heave n s ! C an such joy 
be possible ? {Falls back in the chair.) 
And what has she done to deserve such a 
blessing ? 

Blanche.— Well, then, mamma, it may 
be a silly idea of mine, but why should not 
we , too, indulge a hope that- ~ ? 

Madame,— Alas ! For us, there is no 
room for hope, my child — none, none ! I 
have the official assurance of the Govern- 
ment that he is dead. My poor lost boy ! 
( Weeps) 

Blanche {rising), — Yes, mamma, but 
perhaps the Government is wrong. It 
wouldn't be the first time the Government 
has been wrong, and other Governments 
too ! 

, . (Madame rises.) 
Are you going, mamma ? 

Mahamh (agitated), — Yes, love, to 
Mathilde's room. {Goes to door tv, then 
pauses and comes down c.) Did you say 
the young man had reached England? 

Blanche.— Yes, mamma, and may be 
here any day. 

Madame, — What happiness for Gervaise. 
Her son ! her boy ! How she must count, 
one by one, the weary moments. {Quickly) 
Blanche, I will be back presently, 

{Snatches her bonnet from table r. 
Exit c.) 

Blanche {alone). — The ice is broken at 
last. The idea will now take root in her 
mind that a mother may recover her son, 
even if the Government says he is dead. 
{Enter Noel ft, witk a basket) 

Noel. — You keep watch outside, while I 
take the prisoner his bread and water. 
(Takes key from Blanche. Enters room 

K. v. E.). 

Blanche. — We must manage Mathilde 
next. She's certa.n to have a nervous fit 
of some sort. 

{Re-enter Noel rjj.e,) 
Noel {alarmed).— He*s gone ! 

Blanche.— Gone? I thought I locked 
the door. 

Noel. — Yes, but not the window. 
And I'll lay any money he has caught 
a glimpse of Mamzelle Mathilde. 

Blanche,— The poor fellow is in love, 
you know. 

Noel. — In love ! and a nice business 
it is, to be in love. 

(Adktkx appears on window sill L.) 
Ahrten. — Love laughs at locksmiths — 
remember that. 

Blanche. — So there you are, traitor ! 
Come here, sir, directly. 

Noel. — Someone is coming. Quick. 
(Adrieny7/*w/,s on i ..) 

AnHiKN. — If I must, I suppose I must. 
{Blanche pushes Adrien into room 
r.u.e., and hastily locks the door. At 
the same moment enter Lucien c.) 
Blanch k {aside). — Ju^t in time. ( Turns 
round) It's not mamma, after all. 
Noel (aside), — I breathe again. 
Lucien.— Am 1 intruding ? I beg 
pardon— I — 

Blawhk. — Oh, not at all. We 

thought it was mamma 

Noel,— And felt a little flustered. 
Lucien {surprised). — Why, what has 
happened ? 

Blanche (to Lucien), — A great joy has 
been granted to us. 
Lucien.— -Indeed ? 





Blanche.-/— And we know you will share 
our happiness — you, who loved him so 

Lucien. — What ! Adrien ! 

Blanche. — Is alive and well. Safe locked 
in his own room, there. 

Lucien. — Oh ! thank Heaven ! 

Noel {aside), — His heart is in the right 
place, after all ! 

Lucien. — Blanche, you are a noble girl, 
and deserve this happiness. I must leave 
you immediately. 

Blanche. — But you are not going — I 
shall not let you go — you must stay and 
help us to break the joyful news to poor, 
dear mamma. Hark ! She is coming. 

Lucien. — But, Blanche 

Blanche. — Stay — I entreat you. 

(Enter Madame, hastily c. She stof>s 
and looks at Lucien and Blanche, who 
remain motionless.) 

Madame (r., aside). — What can be the 
meaning of this ? Why has she deceived 
me ? Blanche — who was always truth itself ? 
It cannot be that there is hope — no, no — I 
am mad — it is impossible ! {Aloud) Noel, 
leave us. 

Noel (aside). — That's lucky for me. 
Exit c. 

Blanche (aside to Lucien). — See how 
excited she is. We must be very, very 

Madame (to Blanche).— Who told you 
that story, Blanche ? About Gervaise ? 

Blanche. — Mamma, it was Noel, who 
heard it from a peasant. 

Madame. — And did he give no details ? 
Was Gervaise particularly mentioned ? 

Blanche. — Not by name. 

Madame (starting). — Ah ! 

Lucien (aside to Blanche). — Take care. 

Blanche. — I only know that, according 
to what he heard, Noel thought it must be 
Gervaise's son. 

Madame. — Alas, no ! 

Lucien (to Madame). — I sjiall be in Bor- 
deaux to-morrow, and will make some in- 
quiries, if you wish it. 

Madame (quickly). — What ? Are you 
going, Lucien ? (Aside) How downcast he 
lodks ! 

Lucien. — I am called away by important 
business, and must return to Bordeaux this 

(Kisses her hand, bows to Blanche, 
exit c. Blanche seats herself on the 
sofa l.) 

Madame (sits R. Aside). — How embar- 
rassed he seemed. Oh, I must know the 

truth. This suspense will drive me mad. 
(Rummages in work basket r.) Where is 
the key ? (7b Blanche.) Blanche, have 
you seen the key to your brother's room ? 

Blanche (embarrassed). — The key, mam- 
ma ? Why, you always keep it yourself, 
you know. Indeed, it wasn't I, I assure 
you, mamma. 

Madame. — Why do you excuse yourself, 
my child ? 

Blanche. — Because — because — I thought 

MADAME(aside). — She has taken it. (Aloud) 
That key must be found at once, dear. Go, 
ask Noel if he has it. Stay ! (Aside) She 
would put him on his guard. (Crosses to l., 
calls Noel.) Noel ! 

(Noel appears at c, Blanche going 
out at the same moment) 

Bi-ANCHE (aside to Noel). — It's your turn 
now, sir. Be prudent. 

(Exit c.) 

Madame. — Close the door, Noel. Well, 
Noel, we have news of Adrien. (Crosses 
back to r.) 

Noel (stupefied). — Oh, Madam^, who told 
you that ? 

Madame. — Blanche. 

Noel. — Well, yes, we have heard some- 
thing. (Madame staggers, Noel assists her 
to a seat in the armchair R.) And if you 
were not nervous, you know 

Madame. — Oh, Noel — see how calm I 



Noel. — Yes, very calm indeed ! 
first word I say, away you go, as if 

Madame. — Oh, Noel, for pity's sake. 

Noel (with feigned readiness). — Then, I 
see I can tell you all about it ! 

Madame (eagerly). — Do, do, Noel — my 
old, my faithful friend — tell me the whole 
truth. I can bear it, indeed I can. 

Noel. — Well, then, Madame, it seems a 
traveller reached Bordeaux yesterday, and 
this traveller just casually mentioned that 
in his travels he had met a young traveller 
who was travelling in the sam$ direction, 
and whose name was Adrien des Aubiers. 
Then someone who knew Master Adrien 
said to him — the traveller, I mean — that his 
story couldn't be true, for Master Adrien 
had been killed by the enemy. " Oh no," 
said the traveller, " that couldn't be, for I 
left him alive and well, only a fortnight 

Madame {with joyful eagerness). — 
Where ? 

Noel {puzzled). — Where ? 
Iadame. — Yes — where ? 




Noel {aside). — I wish I could think of 
the name of some country. 

Madame {impatiently). — Where — where 
was my poor boy seen ? 

Noel {desperately), — In — in Australia — 

Madam e {rising and crossing l,). — In 
Australia two weeks ago — absurd ! 

Noel.— Well, but, Madame, how can I 
help it ? You scold me — frighten me 

Madame.— Oh ! you are killing me— 
killing me ! {falling on a chair r.) Go + 
go ! Leave me ! 

Noel {aside), — -I don't seem to make 
much headway. I'll call the others. 

{Goes to window L.e. and makes 
motions outside.) 

Madame {rising to herself), — Oh, if this 
last hope were to die ! No — the news, 
whatever it is T h sure. 

{Enter Mathilde c.) 
Ah | she has changed the ribbon in her 
hair. {Goes towards Mathild^.) (Aloud) 
Mathilde ! 

{Enter Blanche and LurrKN c.} 
Let me look at you ! Ah ! Those eyes 
have met Adrien's— he is here. 

Blanche.— Be calm, I im- 
plore you. 

MadamK — Yes ; I divine 
it all. You have both seen 

Blanche. — Well 
mamma, wo have 
seen" him ; but you 
can only embrace 
him to-morrow, 

Madame. — Ah, my 

son ! my boy ! {They try to calm her.) No f 
no, I'll not listen. {Calls) Adrien ! 

(Adrien bursts open the door r.u.e., 
takes a step forward^ then stops. 
Madame des Aubiers screams, and 
falls into the arms of Noel and 
Adrien. — Oh Heaven, she is dead ! 
Madame {recovering}* — Ah ! 

(Adrien rushes toward Madamf. 
She pauses a moment \ and then wildly 
seizes his head between her hands , 
kissing him passionately.) 
Thank God ! Thank God ! 

(Blanche approaches. Adrien rises } 

and Madame clasps them both in her 


Noel {blubbering). — -This is too much for 

me. Now it*s all over — I — I — {he falls on 

the ottoman-) 

Blanche {goes to him), — Good gracious ! 
I do believe the silly old noodle is going to 

Noel {recovering). — No, no, Mamzelle 
Blanche, (tiising) The fact is, I hardly 
know what to do — I'm so 

Ma dam k. — Ah, Noel, the 
night has passed, and the 
glorious morning breaks 
again. Even to the hope- 
less and the desolate, behind 
the darkest clouds 
there is a silver lin- 


by Google 

Original from 

Portraits of Celebrities at Different Times of their Lives. 

well-known lawyer, had 
married a daughter of 
Count Ro/x de la Haye. 
From her earliest years 
she showed a passion 
for music, and at thir- 

was sent 
advice of the great 
Auber, to the Con- 
servatoire, where she 
speedily gained the 
highest honours, and 
was selected to sin^ 
before the Emperor. 
At seventeen she first appeared in opera, 
singing the part of Herold's Maru i and 
was soon the most popular singer and actress 
in Paris. During the siege of Paris by the 
Prussians she remained in the city T turned 
her house into a hospital, and organised 

From a Fhcta.] 


numerous concerts for 
the relief of the 
wounded. The kind- 
ness of heart thus dis- 
played is most cha- 
racteristic of Madame 
Marie Roze, who is 
ever ready to put her 
great gifts at the ser- 
vice of those whose charitable enterprises 
are crippled for want of necessary funds. 
Two years later she first appeared in Lon- 
don, with a success which has continued to 
increase from that day to the present time. 
In l .S77 she married Colonel Maplcsom 





from a Drawing by] agl 25* L< /awtf* tftcin ion, 


Born 18] 8, 

jORD WEMYSS, at the age of 
twenty-five, when his title was 
Lord Elcho, had just taken his 
degree at Oxford, and had been 
elected to represent East Glou- 
cestershire in the House of Commons, 
which constituency he continued to repre- 
sent until, in 1^46, he became a convert 
to Sir Robert Peel's Free Trade policy and 
resigned his seat. 
In the year following 
he was returned for 
Haddingtonshire as 
i Liberal-Conserva- 
tive, and remained 
member for that 
constituency until 
the death of his 
father , in 1S83, re- 
moved him to the 
House of Lords, 
Lord Wemyss has 
always played a very 
in lependeut part in 
politics. When Lord 
Elcho, he was very 
widely and popularly 
known through his 
connection with the 
Volunteer move- 
ment and the Na- 
tional Rifle Associa- 
tion. He is Colonel 

JVotm «] 

AGE 45. 


From a llioto. ty] 


L/>ui«ut4 r< 


of the London Scot- 
tish Rifle Volun- 
teers, of which 
popular regiment he 
was the founder. He 
frequently presided 
over the Wimbledon 
meeting?, and the 
portraits of him at 
different ages which 
we here present can- 
not fail' to be ex- 
tremely interesting 
to every Volunteer 
in the United King- 
dom, not only on 
account of the great 
obligations which 
the Service owes to 
his energy, but as 
the * presenter of 
the Elcho Shield; 





[LH-OWVq. from b) 

AGE 37. 


A- i b $£ 

. 1 .!..,- J 

frtriw a i'tato.] 


[6y A.?. . .i4<- ( 


Born 1822. 

son of a musician, was born at 
Shooter's Hill, and at the age of 
fourteen obtained the post of 
organist at North Cray Church, 
At seventeen he made his first appearance 

on the stage, as Count Rudolpko in "Soa- 
nambula," at Newcastle. His voice was 
then a baritone ; but by 1847, when he 
made his first appearance in London as 
Edgar in " The Bride of Latnmermoor " 
(in which character our second portrait 
shows him), his voice had become the pure 
high tenor of delicious quality which was 
to become famous over all the world, 






1 h*i 


J- SpH3 r# v Jul 

1 1 

H r SBfiSBH 

■r.r H^^^E. ^■■■■■■■■1 

Li H ■£ jviflVi 

f^mafArtii^] AGE iS, [ZJunpin, Jfrfan, 


Born 1844. 
pNG HUMBERT IV. at eighteen 
h<-H already attended his father 
thrmghtheWar of Independence, 
and obtained an early insight 
into political and military fife. 
At twenty-two he was present at the dis- 
astrous battle of Custozza, where he is said 

From a Photo, t|fl agm 24. [Le Lieurt^ Turin, 

to have performed prodigies of valour. At 
twenty- four, at which age our second por- 
trait represents him, he married, at Turin, 
the charming; lady whose portraits we guv 

Digitized by G< 

/Vom a Photo, &$] age 34. [Jfa*fi, Napier. 

on the opposite page. At thirty-four, the 
age of our third portrait, he succeeded to 
the throne, on the death of his father, 
January 9, 1878. In the same year, as he 

JWm « Photo, ty] agb 47* M ?e**andri t Evmt. 

was entering Naples, a man named Giovanni 
Passanante rushed up to the royal carriage, 
and stabbed his Majesty with a poniard ; the 
wound, however, fortunately proving slight, 




the comparison is still farther borne out by 
the fact that she has won, not only the 


^HE Princess Marguerite Marie 
Therese Jeanne of Savoy, whose 
portraits at difkrent ages are 
here presented to our readers, is 
the daughter of the late Duke 
Ferdinand of Genoa, brother of King Victor 
Emanuel, and became Queen of Italy by her 

Frotn a Fhoto. by] 


[Boreili, 1 

admiration of the people by her grace and 
beauty, but their secure affection by her 
amiable and kindly nature. 

t'rvw. a I*H tv T by\ 

ACS 17. 

[£e IwUM, I'ufi*. 

Damage with her cousin Humbert, on 
April 22, iSbH. The Oueen of Italy, like 
our own Princess of Wales, is one of the 
most beautiful women in her kingdom, and 




From a] 

AtiE id. [UaffuerrvtttiRK. 


TERRY, who was born in Lon- 
don, made his first appearance 
on the public stage at the age of 
nineteen j when he immediately 
scored great successes in the provinces as 
Asa Trenchard to Sotherivs Lord Dun- 
dreary, and as Old Pete in "The Octo- 
roon, ?T At twenty- three he made his first 
appearance before a London audience at 
the Surrey Theatre, and a year later he 
appeared at the Lyceum in the character 
of the First Gravtdigger in 4( Hamlet/ 1 
At thirty-two, the age at which our third 
portrait represents him, he became a mem- 
ber of the Gaiety Company, in which his 
inimitably droll personification of the 

t'rvm a Photo, tyj 


[Alfwi Jttfe 

From a Phnto. by] AGE ]3. [Lombardi. 

Digitized by CiOOQ 


characters of burlesque did much to give 
that Company its unrivalled name. In 
1885 he left the Gaiety^ and at the pre- 
sent time, as all play goers are aware, pos- 
sesses a theatre of his own in the Strand, at 
which is to be seen nightly some of the 
best comedy -acting of the day. 

Original from 




AfcE f. 
From c» /'/join, fc» R. ffiixu, /'dims de Jfattofro, 


Born 1844, 

SATE was born at Pampeluna, 
came to France as a child, and 
at the age of twelve entered the 
Paris Conservatoire, where he 
became the favourite pupil of A lard p and 
gained the first prizes for violin playing. 
When about sixteen he took up the career 
of a concert player, in which the extreme 
beauty of his execution, aided doubtless by 
his singularly striking appearance, ensured 
his immediate success. No violinist has 
travelled more than he ; he has played 
in every important city in Europe and 
America, and is well known to London 
audiences. His distinguishing characteris- 
tics are not so much fire, force, and 
passion, though of these he has an ample 
store, as purity of style, charm, flexibility, 
and extraordinary facility. He sings on 
his instrument with the utmost feeling and 
expression, and without any of the affecta- 
tion which robs the playing of many 

Digitized Dy^*c*JgK 

From a i'twiv. hg H*raammca, Si. I'tiertbttrg. 

From a Photo* ty} 

age 47- 

[Elliott £ ft* 

violinists of all charm. It k a disputed 
point among musicians whether Seiior 
Sarasate or Herr Joachim is to be considered 
the greatest violinist of the age, 


Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. 


By A. Conan Doyle. 

F all the problems which have 
been submitted to my friend 
Mr. Sherlock Holmes for solu- 
tion during the years of our 
intimacy, there were only two 
which I was the means of 
introducing to his notice, that of Mr. Hath- 
erley's thumb and that of Colonel War- 
burton's madness. Of these the latter may 
have afforded a finer field for an acute and 
original observer, but the other was so 
strange in its inception and so dramatic in 
its details, that it may be the more worthy 
of being placed upon record, even if it gave 
my friend fewer openings for those deduc- 
tive methods of reasoning by which he 
achieved such remarkable results. The 
story has, I believe, been told more than 
once in the newspapers, but, like all such 
narratives, its effect is much less striking 
when set forth en bloc in a single half- 
column of print than when the facts slowly 
evolve before your own eyes and the mystery 
clears gradually away as each new discovery 
furnishes a step which leads on to the com- 
plete truth. At the time the circumstances 
made a deep impression upon me, and the 
lapse of two years has hardly served to 
weaken the effect. 

It was in the summer of '89, not long 
after my marriage, that the events occurred 
which I am now about to summarise. I 
had returned to civil practice, and had 
finally abandoned Holmes in his Baker- 
street rooms, although I continually visited 
him, and occasionally even persuaded him 
to forego his Bohemian habits so far as to 
come and visit us. My practice had steadily 
increased, and as I happened to live at no 
very great distance from Paddington 
Station, I got a few patients from among 
the officials. One of these whom I had 
cured of a painful and lingering disease, was 
never weary of advertising my virtues, and 
of endeavouring to send me on every 
sufferer over whom lie might have any 

by L^OOgle 

One morning, at a little before seven 
o'clock, I was awakened by the maid tap- 
ping at the door, to announce that two men 
had come from Paddington, and were 
waiting in the consulting room. I dressed 
hurriedly, for I knew by experience that rail- 
way cases were seldom trivial, and hastened 
downstairs. As I descended, my old ally, 
the guard, came out of the room, and closed 
the door tightly behind him. 

"I've got him here," he whispered, 
jerking his thumb over his shoulder ; " he's 
all right." 

"What is it. then*?" I ask^d, for his 
manner suggested that it was some strange 
creature which he had caged up in my 

" It's a new patient," he whispered. " I 
thought I'd bring him round myself ; then 
he couldn't slip away. There he is, all 
safe and sound. I must go now, doctor, I 
have my dooties, just the same as you." 
And off he went, this trusty tout, without 
even giving me time to thank him. 

I entered my consulting room, and found 
a gentleman seated by the table. He was 
quietly dressed in a suit of heather tweed, 
with a soft cloth cap, which he had laid 
down upon my books. Round one of his 
hands he had a handkerchief wrapped, 
which was mottled all over with bloodstains. 
He was young, not more than five-and- 
twenty, I should say, with a strong 
masculine face ; but he was exceedingly 
pale, and gave me the impression of a man 
who was suffering from some strong 
agitation, which it took all his strength of 
mind to control. 

" I am sorry to knock you up so early, 
doctor," said he. " But I have had a very 
serious accident during the night. I came 
in by train this morning, and on inquiring 
at Paddington as to where I might find a 
doctor a worthy fellow very kindly escorted 
me here. I gave the maid a card, but I see 
that she has left it upon the side table." 
I took it up and glanced at it. " Mr. 




Victor Hatherley, hydraulic engineer, i6a, 
Victoria-street (3rd floor).' ' That was the 
name, style, and abode of my morning 
visitor. "I regret that I have kept you 
waiting," said I, sitting down in my library 
chair, u You are fresh from a night journey , 
I understand, which is in itself a monotonous 

i4 Oh, my night could not be called 
monotonous/ 1 said he, and laughed. He 
laughed very heartily, with a high ringing 
note, leaning back in his chair, and shaking 
his sides. All my medical instincts rose up 
against that laugh, 

" Stop it ! " I cried, u Pull yourself to- 
gether ! " and I poured out some water from 
a caraffe. 

It was useless, however. He was off in 
one of those hysterical outbursts which 
. come upon a strong nature when some 
great crisis is over and gone. Presently 
he came to himself once more, very weary 
and blushing hotly. 

(i I have been making a fool of myself, 11 
he gasped. 

"Not at all, Drink this!" I dashed 
some brandy into the water, and the colour 
began to come back to his bloodless cheeks. 

" That's better! " said he, " And now, 

11 HE UNWOUND I ! b HA. 


doctor, perhaps you would kindly attend to 
my thumb, or rather to the place where my 
thumb used to be, 11 

He unwound the handkerchief and held 
out his hand, It gave even my hardened 
nerves a shudder to look at it. There were 
four protruding fingers and a horrid red 
spongy surface where the thumb should 
have been. It had been hacked or torn 
right out from the roots. 

11 Good heavens ! M L cried, " this is a 
terrible injury. It must have bled con- 

" Yes, it did. I fainted when it was 
done ; and I think that I must have been 
senseless for a long time. When I came to, 
I found that it was still bleeding, so I 
tied one end of my handkerchief very 
tightly round the- wrist, and braced it up 
with a twig.'' 

" Excellent ! You should have been a 

" It is a question of hydraulics, you see, 
and came within my own province," 

"This has been done," said I, examining 
the wound, "by a very heavy and sharp 

"A thing like a cleaver," said he. 
" An accident, I presume ?" 

ki By no means," 
" What, a mur- 
derous attack ! " 

^Very murder- 
ous indeed." 

" You horrify 

I sponged the 
wound, cleaned 
it, dressed it ; 
and, finally, cov- 
ered it over with 
cotton wadding 
and carbolised 
bandages. He 
lay back without 
wincing, though 
he bit his lip from 
time to time. 

"How is that?" 
I asked, when I 
had finished. 

"Capital! Be^ 
tween your bran- 
dy and your band- 
age, I feel a new 
man, I was very 
weak, but \ have 
had a good deal 
to go through ." 

AND HELD OUT HIS HAN L>! 1 P ' f~l 8 I tfO PA 




li Perhaps you had better not speak of 
the matter. It is evidently trying to your 

"Oh, no ; not now. I shall have to tell 
my tale to the police ; bet, between our- 
selvesj if it were not for the convincing 
evidence of this wound of mine, I should 
be surprised if they believed my statement, 
for it is a very extraordinary one, and I 


have not much in the way of proof with 
which to back it up. And, even if they 
believe me, the clues which I can give them 
are so vague that it is a question whether 
justice will be done/* 

"Ha ! 1T cried I, u if it is anything in the 
nature of a problem which you desire to see 
solved, I should strongly recommend you 
to come to my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes 
before you go to the official police." 

M Oh, I have heard of that fellow/' an- 
swered my visitor, " and I should be very 
glad if he would take the matter up, though 
of course I must use the official police as 
well. Would you give me an introduction 
to him?" 

" I'll do better. Ill take you round to 
him myself/ 7 

41 1 should be immensely obliged to you/' 

u We'll call a cab, and go together. We 
shall just be in time to have a little break- 
fast with him. Do you feel equal to it ? f1 

Digitized by GoOQle- 

11 Yes, I shall not feel easy until I have 
told my story," 

" Then my servant will call a cab T and I 
*hall be with you in an instant. 1 ' I rushed 
upstairs, explained the matter shortly to my 
wife, and in five minutes was inside a han- 
som, driving with my new acquaintance to 
Sherlock Holmes was, -as I expected, 

lounging about his 
sitting-room in his 
dressing-gown , 
reading the agony 
column of The 
Times, and smok- 
ing his before - 
breakfast pipe, 
which was com- 
posed of all the 
plugs and dottels 
left from his 
smokes of the day 
before, all carefully 
dried and collected 
on the corner of 
the mantel-piece. 
He received us in 
his quietly genial 
fashion, ordered 
fresh rashers and 
eggs, and joined 
us in a hearty 
meal. When it 
was concluded he 
settled our new ac- 
quaintance upon 
the sofa, placed a 
pillow beneath his head, and laid a glass 
of brandy and water within his reach. 

11 It is easy to see that your experience 
has been no common one, Mr, Hatherley," 
said he. * k Pray lie down there and make 
yourself absolutely at home, Tell us what 
you can, but stop when you are tired, and 
keep up your strength with a little 

" Thank you,*' said my patient, " but I 
have felt another man since the doctor 
bandaged me t and I think that your break- 
fast has completed the cure. I shall take 
up as little of your valuable time as 
possible, so I shall start at once upon my 
peculiar experiences." 

Holmes sat in his big armchair with the 
weary T heavy-lidded expression which veiled 
his keen and eager natuie, while 'I sat 
opposite to him t and we listened in 
silence to the strange story which our visitor 
detailed to us. 

Original from 




11 You must know/ 1 said he, " that I am 
an orphan and a bachelor, residing alone in 
lodgings in London. By profession I am 
a hydraulic engineer, and I have had con- 
siderable experience of my work during 
the seven years that I was apprenticed to 
Venner and Matheson, the well-known firm, 
of Greenwich. Two years ago, having 
served my time, and having also come into 
a fair sum of money through my poor 
father's death, I determined to start in 
business for myself, and took professional 
chambers in Victoria-street, 

"I suppose that everyone finds his first 
independent start in business a dreary expe 
rience* To me it has been exceptionally so. 
During two years I have had three consulta - 
tions and one small job, and that is abso- 
lutely all that my profession has brought me. 
My gross takings amount to twenty-seven 
pounds ten. Every day, from nine in the 
morning until four in the afternoon, I 
waited in my little den, until at last my 
heart began to sink, and I came to believe 
that I should never have any practice at alh 

M Yesterday, however^just as I was think- 
ing of leaving the office, my clerk entered 


_ ■ * 

T ARK ." 

to say there was a gentleman waiting who 
wished to see me upon business. He brought 
up a card, too, with the name of *' Colonel 
Lysander Stark " engraved upon it. Close 
at his heels came the Colonel himself, a 
man rather over the middle size but of an 
exceeding thinness. I do not think that I 
have ever seen so thin a man. His whole 
face sharpened away into nose and chin, and 
the skin of his cheeks was drawn quite 
tense over his outstanding bones. Yet this 
emaciation seemed to be his natural habit, 
and due to no disease, for his eye was bright, 
his step brisk, and his bearing assured. He 
was plainly but neatly dressed, and his age, 
I should judge, would be nearer forty than 

" * Mr, JHatherley ? f said be, with some- 
thing of a German accent. ' You have been 
recommended to me, Mr. Hatherley, as 
being a man who is not only proficient in 
Iiis profession, but is also discreet and 
capable of preserving a secret,' 

" 1 bowed, feeling as flattered as any 
young man would at such an address. 
'May I ask who it was who gave me so 
good a character ? y I asked. 

" ' Well, perhaps it is better that I should 
not tell you that just at this moment. I 
have it from the same source that you are 
both an orphan and a bachelor, and are 
residing alone in London.' 

11 'That is quite correct, 7 1 answered, 'but 
you will excuse me if I say that I cannot 
see how all this hears upon my professional 
qualifications. I understood that it was on 
a professional matter that you wished to 
speak to me ? ' 

ili Undoubtedly so. But you will find 
that all I say is really to the point. I have 
a professional commission for you, but ab- 
solute secrecy is quite essential — absolute 
secrecy, you understand, and of course we 
may expect that more from a man who is 
alone than from one who lives in the bosom 
of his family.' 

* 4 i If I promise to keep a secret, 1 said J } 
' you may absolutely depend upon my doing 

41 He looked very hard at me as I spoke, 
and it seemed to me that I had never seen 
so suspicious and questioning an eye, 

w i You do promise, then ? ■ said he at last, 

u * Yes ? I promise.' 

u * Absolute and complete silence, before, 
during, and after ? No reference to the 
matter at all t either in word or writing?' 

" ( I have already given you my word,* 

« ( * Very good.' He suddenly sprang; up. 



and darting like lightning across the room 
he flung open the door. The passage out- 
side was empty. 

44 4 That's all right/ said he, coming back. 
4 1 know that clerks are sometimes curious 
as to their master's affairs. Now we can 
talk in safety.' He drew up his chair very 
close to mine, and began to stare at me 
again with the same questioning and 
thoughtful look. 

44 A feeling of repulsion, and of some- 
thing akin to fear had begun to rise within 
me at the strange antics of this fleshless 
man. Even my dread of losing a client 
could not restrain me from showing my 

44 4 1 beg that you will state your busi- 
ness, sir,' said I ; 4 my time is of value.' 
Heaven forgive me for that last sentence, 
but the words came to my lips. 

44 * How would fifty guineas for a night's 
work suit you ? ' he asked. 

44 4 Most admirably.' 

444 1 say a night's work, but an hour's 
would be nearer the mark. I simply want 
your opinion about a hydraulic stamping 
machine which has got out of gear. If you 
show us what is wrong we shall soon set it 
right ourselves. What do you think of 
such a commission as that ? ' 

44 4 The work appears to be light, and the 
pay munificent.' 

44 4 Precisely so. We shall want you to 
come to-night by the last train.' 

44 4 Where to ? ' 

44 4 To Eyford, in Berkshire. It is a little 
place near the borders of Oxfordshire, and 
within seven miles of Reading. There is a 
train from Paddington which would bring 
you in there at about eleven fifteen.' 

44 4 Very good.' 

44 4 1 shall come down in a carriage to 
meet you.' 

44 4 There is a drive, then ?' 

44 4 Yes, our little place is quite out in the 
country. It is a good seven miles from 
Eyford Station.' 

44 4 Then we can hardly get there before 
midnight. I suppose there would be no 
chance of a train back. I should be com- 
pelled to stop the night.' 

44 4 Yes, we could easily give you a shake- 

44 4 That is very awkward. Could I not 
come at some more convenient hour ? ' 

14 4 We have judged it best that you should 
come late. It is to recompense you for any 
inconvenience that we are paying to you, a 
young and unknown man, a fee which 

would buy an opinion from the very heads 
of your profession. Still, of course, if you 
would like to draw out of the business, there 
is plenty of time to do so.' 

44 1 thought of the fifty guineas, and of 
how very useful they would be to me. 
4 Not at all,' said 1, 4 1 shall be very happy 
to accommodate myself to your wishes. I 
should like, however, to understand a little 
more clearly what it is that you wish me 
to do.' 

44 * Quite so. It is very natural that the 
pledge of secrecy which we have exacted 
from you should have aroused your curiosity. 
I have no wish to commit you to anything 
without your having it all laid before you. 
I suppose that we are absolutely safe from 
eavesdroppers ? ' 

444 Entirely.' 

44 4 Then the matter stands thus. You 
are probably aware that fuller's earth is a 
valuable product, and that it is only found 
in one or two places in England ? ' 

44 4 1 have heard so.' 

44 Some little time ^go I bought a small 
place — a very small place — within ten miles 
of Reading. I was fortunate enough to 
discover that there was a deposit of fuller's 
earth in one of my fields. On examining 
it, however, I found that this deposit was a 
comparatively small one, and that it formed 
a link between two very much larger 
ones upon the right and the left — both of 
them, however, in the grounds of my 
neighbours. These good people were abso- 
lutely ignorant that their land contained 
that which was quite as valuable as a gold 
mine. Naturally, it was to my interest to 
buy their land before they discovered its 
true value ; but, unfortunately, I had no 
capital by which I could do this. I took a 
few of my friends into the secret, however, and 
they suggested that we should quietly and 
secretly work our own little deposit, and 
that in this way we should earn the money 
which would enable us to buy the neigh- 
bouring fields. This we have now been 
doing for some time, and in order to help 
us in our operations we erected a hydraulic 
press. This press, as I have already ex- 
plained, has got out of order, and we wish 
your advffce upon the subject. We guard 
our secret very jealously, however, and if it 
once became known that we had hydraulic 
engineers coming to our little house, it 
would soon rouse inquiry, and then, if the 
facts came out, it would be good-bye to any 
chance of getting these fields and carrying 
out our plans. That is why I have made 



you promise me that you will not tell a 
human being that you are going to Eyford 
to-night. I hope that I make it all plain ? ! 

Ul l quite follow you/ said 1. 'The only 
point which I could not quite understand, 
was what use you could make of a hydraulic 
press in excavating fuller's earth , which, 
as I understand) is dugout like gravel from 
a pit/ 

"'Ah! 1 said he T carelessly, * we have 
our own process. We compress the earth 
into bricks, so as to remove them without 
revealing what they are. But that is a mere 
detail. I have taken you fullv into my con- 
fidence now, Mr. Hat her ley, and I have 
shown you how I trust you.' He rose as he 
spoke, * I shall expect you, then, at Eyford 
at 11,15/ 

11 ( I shall certainly be there/ 



M 'And not a word to a soul/ He looked 
at me with a last long, questioning gaze, 
and then, pressing my hand in a cold, dank 
grasp, he hurried from the room. 

u Well, when I came to think it al! over 
in cool blood I was very much a^toni^hed, 
as you may both think, at this sudden com- 
mission which had been em runted to tne. 
On the one hand, of course, I was glad, for 
the fee was at least tenfold what I should 
have asked had I set a price upon my own 
services, and it was possible that this order 
might lead to other ones. On the other 
hand, the face and manner of my patron 
had made an unpleasant impression upon 
me, and I could not think that his explana- 
tion of the fullers earth was sufficient to 
explain the necessity for my coming at 
midnight, and his extreme anxiety lest I 
should tell anyone of my 
errand. However, I threw 
all fears to the winds, ate 
a hearty supper, drove to 
Paddington, and started 
off, having obeyed to the 
letter the injunction as to 
holding mv tongue. 

"At Reading I had to 
change not only my car- 
riage but my station. 
However, I was in time 
for the last train to Eyford, 
and I reached the little 
dim lit station after eleven 
o'clock. I was the only 
passenger who got out 
there, and there was no 
one upon the platform 
save a single sleepy porter 
with a lantern. As I passed 
out through the wicket 
gate, however, I found my 
acquaintance of the morn- 
ing waiting in the shadow 
upon the other side. With- 
out a word he grasped my 
arm and hurried rue into a 
carriage, the door of which 
was standing open. He 
drew up the windows on 
cither side, tapped on the 
woodwork, and away we 
went as hard as the hoi>e 
could go.*' 

"One horse? " 
jected Holmes, 
44 Yes, only one. TT 
l( Did you observe 






44 Yes, I saw it by the sidelights when I 
was stepping into the carriage. It was a 

44 Tired-looking or fresh ? " 

44 Oh, fresh and glossy." 

44 Thank you. I am sorry to have inter- 
rupted you. Pray continue your most in- 
teresting statement.' 1 

44 Away we went then, and we drove for 
at least an hour. Colonel Lysander Stark 
had said that it was only seven miles, but I 
should think, from the rate that we seemed 
to go, and from the time that we took, that 
it must have been nearer twelve. He sat 
at my side in silence all the time, and I was 
aware, more than once when I glanced in 
his direction, that he was looking at me 
with great intensity. The country roads 
seem to be not very good in that part of 
the world, for we lurched and jolted terribly. 
I tried to look out of the windows to see 
something of where we were, but they were 
made of frosted glass, and I could make out 
nothing save the occasional bright blurr of 
a passing light. Now and then I hazarded 
some remark to break the monotony of the 
journey, but the Colonel answered only in 
monosyllables, and the conversation soon 
flagged. At last, however, the bumping of 
the road was exchanged for the crisp smooth- 
ness of a gravel drive, and the carriage came 
to a stand. Colonel Lysander Stark sprang 
out, and, as I followed after him, pulled me 
swiftly into a porch which gaped in front 
of us. We stepped, as it were, right out of 
the carriage and into the hall, so that I 
failed to catch the most fleeting glance of 
the front of the house. The instant that I 
had crossed the threshold the door slammed 
heavily behind us, and I heard faintly the 
rattle of the wheels as the carriage drove 

u li was pitch dark inside the house, and 
the Colonel fumbled about looking for 
matches, and muttering under his breath. 
Suddenly a door opened at the other end of 
the passage, and a long, golden bar of light 
shot out in our direction. It grew broader, 
and a woman appeared with a lamp in her 
hand, which she held above her head, push- 
ing her face forward and peering at us. I 
could see that she was pretty, and from the 
gloss with which the light shone upon her 
dark dress I knew that it was a rich 
material. She spoke a few words in a foreign 
tongue in a tone as though asking a 
question, and when my companion answered 
in a gruff monosyllable she gave such a 
start that the lamp nearly fell from her 

Digitized by CiOOgle 

hand. Colonel Stark went up to her, whis- 
pered something in her ear, and then, 
pushing her back into the room from whence 
she had come, he walked towards me again 
with the lamp in his hsnd. 

44 4 Perhaps you will have the kindness to 
wait in this room for a few minutes/ said 
he, throwing open another door. It was a 
quiet little, plainly furnished room, with a 
round table in the centre, on which several 
German books v/ere scattered. Colonel 
Stark laid down the lamp on the top of a 
harmonium beside the door. 4 1 shall not 
keep you waiting an instant,' said he, and 
vanished into the darkness. 

44 1 glanced at the books upon the table, 
and in spite of my ignorance of German 
I could see that two of them were 
treatises on science, the others being 
volumes of poetry. Then I walked across 
to the window, hoping that I might catch 
some glimpse of the country side, but an 
oak shutter, heavily barred, was folded across 
it. It was a wonderfully silent house. 
There was an old clock ticking loudly 
somewhere in the passage, but otherwise 
everything was deadly still. A vague feel- 
ing of uneasiness began to steal over me. 
Who were these German people, and what 
were they doing, living in this strange, out- 
of-the-way place ? And where was the 
place ? I was ten miles or so from Eyford, 
that was all I knew, but whether north, 
south, east, or west I had no idea. For that 
matter, Reading, and possibly other large 
towns, were within that radius, so the place 
might not be so secluded after all. Yet it 
was quite certain from the absolute stillness 
that we were in the country. I paced up 
and down the room, humming a tune under 
my breath to keep up my spirits, and feel- 
ing that I was thoroughly earning my fifty- 
guinea fee. 

44 Suddenly, without any preliminary 
sound in the midst of the utter stillness, the 
door of my room swung slowly open. The 
woman was standing in the aperture, the 
darkness of the hall behind her, the yellow 
light from my lamp beating upon her eager 
and beautiful face. I could see at a glance 
that she was sick with fear, and the sight 
sent a chill to my own heart. She held 
up one shaking finger to warn me to be 
silent, and she shot a few whispered words 
of broken English at me, her eyes glancing 
back, like those of a frightened horse, into 
the gloom behind her. 

44 4 1 would go/ said she, trying hard, as 
it seemed to me, to speak calmly ; *I would 


u I I I ■_' I I 




go, I should not stay here. There is no 
good for you to do. 1 

" * But, madam/ said I, 'I have not yet 
done what I came for, I cannot possibly 
leave until I have seen the machine/ 

" ' Tt is not worth your while to wait, 1 
she went on. * You can pass through the 
door ; no one hinders, 1 And then, seeing 
that [ smiled and shook my head, she 
suddenly threw aside her constraint, and 
made a step forward, with her hands wrung 
together, * For the love of Heaven ! T she 


whispered, ' get away from here before it is 
too late ! ■ 

M But I am somewhat headstrong by 
nature, and the more ready to engage in an 
affair when there is some obstacle in the 
way. I thought of my fifty-guinea fee, of 
my wearisome journey, and of the un- 
pleasant night which seemed to be before 
me. Was it all to go for nothing ? Why 
should I slink away without having carried 

out my commission, and without 
meat which was my dut 


*" ™<^ 


might, for all I knew, be a monomaniac. 
With a stout bearing, therefore, though her 
manner had shaken me more than I cared 
to confess, I still shook my head, and de- 
clared my intention of remaining where 1 
was. She was about to renew her entreaties 
when a door slammed overhead, and the 
sound of several footsteps were heard upon 
the stairs. She listened for an instant, 
threw up her hands with a despairing ges- 
ture, and vanished as suddenly and as noise- 
lessly as she had come, 

"The newcomers were Colonel 
Lysander Stark, and a short thick 
man with a chinchilla beard grow- 
ing out of the creases of his double 
chin, who was introduced to me as 
Mr. Ferguson. 

Ui This is my secretary and man- 
ager/ said the Coloneh * By the 
way, I was under the impression 
that I left this door shut just now. 
I fear that you have felt the 

u * On the contrary/ said I, ( I 
opened the door myself, because I 
felt the room to be a little closed 

"He shot one of his suspicious 
glances at me. ' Perhaps we had 
better proceed to business, then/ 
said he* l Mr. Ferguson and I will 
take you up to see the machine,' 

11 i I had better put my hat on, I 

" * Oh no, it is in the house/ 
t( * What, you dig fuller's earth 
in the house ? ' 

(l l No, no. This is only -where 
we compress it. But never mind 
that ! All we wish you to do is to 
examine the machine, and to let 
us know what is wrong with it. 1 

"We went upstairs together r 
the Colonel first with the lamp, 
the fat manager, and I behind 
him. It was a labyrinth of an old 
house, with corridors, passages, 
narrow winding staircases, and little low 
doors, the thresholds of which were hol- 
lowed out by the generations who had 
crossed them. There were no carpets, 
and no signs of any furniture above the 
ground floor, while the plaster was peeling 
off the walls, and the damp was breaking 
through in green, unhealthy blotches. I 
tried to put on as unconcerned an air as 
possible, but I had not forgotten the warn- 
ings of the lady, even though I disregarded 
them, and I kept a. keen eye upon my two 




companions. Ferguson appeared to be a 
morose and silent man, but I could see 
from the little that he said that he was at 
least a fellow -country man. 

11 Colonel Lysander Stark stopped at last 
before a low door, which he unlocked. 
Within was a small square room, in which 
the three of us could hardly get at one time. 
Ferguson remained outside, and the Colonel 
ushered me in. 

u l We are now/ said he, ' actually within 
the hydraulic press, and it would be a 
particularly unpleasant thing for us if any- 
one \vere to tni n it on. The ceiling of tins 
small chamber is really the end of the 
descending piston, and it comes down with 
the force of many tons upon this metal 
floor. There are smalt lateral columns of 
water outside which receive the force, and 
which transmit and multiply it in the 
manner which is familiar to you. The 
machine goes readily enough, but there is 
some stiffness in the working of it, and it 
has lost a little of its force. Perhaps you 
will have the goodness to look it 
over, and to show us how we can 
set it right. 1 I 

"I took the lamp from him, and 
I examined the machine very tho- 
roughly. It was indeed a gigantic ( 
one, and capable of exercising 
enormous pressure. When I 
passed outside, however, and 
pressed down the levers which 
controlled it, I knew at once by 
the whishifig sound that there 
was a slight leakage, which al- 
lowed a regurgitation of water 
through one of the side cylinders. 
An examination showed that one 
of the indiarubber bands which 
was round the head of a driving 
rod had shrunk so as not quite 
to fill the socket along which it 
worked. This was clearly the 
cause of the loss of power, and I 
pointed it out to my companions, 
who followed my remarks very 
carefully, and asked several prac- 
tical questions as to how they 
should proceed to set it right. 
When I had made it clear to 
them, I returned to the main 
chamber of the machine, and took 
a good look at it to satisfy my 
own curiosity. It was obvious at a 
glance that the story of the fuller's 
earth was the merest fabrication, 
for it would be absurd to suppose 

that so povverful an engine could be de- 
signed for so inadequate a purpose. The 
walls were of wood, but the floor consisted 
of a large iron trough, and when I came to 
examine it I could see a crust of metallic 
deposit all over it* I had stooped and was 
scraping at this to sec exactly what it was, 
when I heard a muttered exclamation in 
German, and saw the cadaverous face of the 
Colonel looking down at me, 

il ( What are you doing there ? * he asked. 

11 I felt angry at having been tricked by 
so elaborate a story as that which he had 
told me. 'I was admiring your fuller's 
earth,' said I ; * I think that I should be 
better able to advise you as to your machine 
if I knew what the exact purpose was for 
which it was used.' 

" The instant that I uttered the words I 
regretted the rashness of my speech. His 
face set hard, and a baleful light sprang up 
in his grey eyes, 

" * Very well,' said he^ ' you shall know 
ail about the machine/ He took a step 




backward, slammed the little door, and 
turned the key in the lock. I rushed 
towards it and pulled at the handle, but it 
was quite secure, and did not give in the 
least to my kicks and shoves. 4 Hullo ! ' I 
yelled. ' Hullo ! Colonel ! Let me out ! ' 

44 And then suddenly in the silence I 
heard a sound which sent my heart into 
my mouth. It was the clank of the levers, 
and the swish of the leaking cylinder. He 
had set the engine at work. The lamp 
still stood upon the floor where I had placed 
it when examining the trough. By its 
light I saw that the black ceiling was 
coming down upon me, slowly, jerkily, but, 
as none knew better than myself, with a 
force which must within a minute grind me 
to a shapeless pulp. I threw myself, scfeam- 
ing, against the door, and dragged with my 
nails at the lock. I implored the Colonel 
to let me out, but the remorseless clanking 
of the levers drowned my cries. The ceil- 
ing was only a foot or two above my head, 
and with my hand upraised I could feel its 
hard, rough surface. Then it flashed through 
my mind that the pain of my death would 
depend very much upon the position in 
which I met it. If I lay on my face the 
weight would come upon my spine, and I 
shuddered to think of that dreadful snap. 
' Easier the other way, perhaps, and yet had 
I the nerve to lie and look up at that deadly 
black shadow wavering down upon me ? 
Already I was unable to stand erect, when 
my eye caught something which brought 
a gush of hope back to my heart. 

44 1 have said that though floor and ceil- 
ing were of iron, the walls were of wood. 
As I gave a last hurried glance around, I 
saw a thin line of yellow light between two 
of the boards, which broadened and broad- 
ened as a small panel was pushed backwards. ' 
For an instant I could hardly believe that 
here was indeed a door which led away from 
death. The next I threw myself through, 
and lay half-fainting upon the other side. 
The panel had closed again behind me, but 
the crash of the lamp, and a few moments 
afterwards the clang of the two slabs of 
metal, told me how narrow had been my 

44 1 was recalled to myself by a frantic 
plucking at my wrist, and I found myself 
lying upon the stone floor of a narrow 
corridor, while a woman bent over me and 
tugged at me with her left hand, while 
she held a candle in her right. It was the 
same good friend whose warning I had so 
foolishly rejected. 

" 4 Come ! come ! ' she cried, breath- 
lessly. 4 They will be here in a moment. 
They will see that you are not there. Oh, 
do not waste the so precious time, but 
come V 

44 This time, at least, I did not scorn her 
advice. I staggered to my feet, and ran with 
her along the corridor and down a winding 
stair. The latter led to another broad 
passage, and, just as we reached it, we 
heard the sound of running feet, and the 
shouting of two voices — one answering the 
other — from the floor on which we were, 
and from the one beneath. My guide 
stopped, and looked about her like one who 
is at her wits' end. Then she threw open 
a door which led into a bedroom, through 
the window of which the moon was shining 

44 4 It is your only chance/ said she. 4 It 
is high, but it may be that you can jump 

44 As she spoke a light sprang into view 
at the further end of the passage, and I saw 
the lean figure of Colonel Lysander Stark 
rushing forward with a lantern in one 
hand, and a weapon like a butcher's cleaver 
in the other. I rushed across the bedroom, 
flung open the window, and looked out. 
How quiet and sweet and wholesome the 
garden looked in the moonlight, and it 
could not be more than thirty feet down. 
I clambered out upon the sill, but I hesitated 
to jump, until I should have heard what 
passed between my saviour and the ruffian 
who pursued me. If she were ill-used, 
then at any risks I was determined to go 
back to her assistance. The thought had 
hardly flashed through my mind before he 
was at the door, pushing his way past her ; 
but she threw her arms round him, and 
tried to hold him back. 

44 4 Fritz ! Fritz ! ' she cried in English, 
4 remember your promise after the last 
time. You said it should not be again. 
He will be silent ! Oh, he will be silent ! ' 

44 4 You are mad, Elise ! T he shouted, 
struggling to break away from her. 4 You 
will be the ruin of us. He has seen too 
much. Let me pass, I say ! ' He dashed 
her to one side, and, rushing to the win- 
dow, cut at me with his heavy weapon. I 
had let myself go, and was hanging by the 
hands to the sill, when his blow fell. I was 
conscious of a dull pain, my grip loosened, 
and I fell into the garden below. 

44 1 was shaken, but not hurt by the fall ; 
so I picked myself up, and rushed off among 
the bushes as hard a3 I could run, for I 



" *HE CUT AT ME/* 

understood that I was far from being out of 
danger yet. Sudden ]y f however, as I ran, 
a deadly dizziness and sickness came over 
me. I glanced down at my hand, which 
was throbbing painfully, and then, for the 
first time, saw that my thumb had been 
cut off, and that the blood was pouring 
from my wound. I endeavoured to tie my 
handkerchief round it, but there came a 
sudden buying in my cars, and next 
moment I fell in a dead faint among the 

"How long I remained unconscious I 
cannot tell. It must have been a very long 
time, for the moon had sunk, and a bright 
morning was breaking when I came to 
myself. My clothes were all sodden with 
dew, and my coat-sleeve was drenched with 
blood from my wounded thumb. The 
smarting of it recalled in an instant all the 
particulars of my night's adventure, and I 

sprang to my feet with the feeling 
that I might hardly yet be safe 
from my pursuers. But, to my as- 
tonishment, when I came to look 
round me, neither house nor gar- 
den were to be seen, I had been 
lying in an angle of the hedge 
close by the high road, and just a 
little lower down was a long build- 
ing, which proved, upon my ap- 
proaching it, to be the very station 
at which I had arrived upon the 
previous night. Were it not for 
the ugly wound upon my hand, all 
that had passed during those dread- 
ful hours might have been an evil 

"Half dazed, I went into the 
station, and asked about the morn- 
ing train. There would be one to 
Reading in less than an hour. The 
same porter was on duty, I found, 
as had been there when I arrived, 
I inquired from him whether he 
had ever heard of Colonel Lysander 
Stark, The name was strange to 
him. Had he observed a carriage 
the night before waiting for me ? 
No, ho had not. Was there a police 
station anywhere near ? There 
was one about three miles off* 

* [ It was too far for me to go, 
weak and ill as I was. I determined 
to wait until I got back to town 
before telling my story to the police. 
It was a little past six when I ar- 
rived, so I went first to have my 
wound dressed, and then the doctor 
was kind enough to bring me along here. 
I put the case into your hands, and shall 
do exactly what you advise,'- 

We both sat in silence for some little 
time after, listening to this extraordinary 
narrative. Then Sherlock Holmes pulled 
down from the shelf one of the ponderous 
commonplace books in which he placed 
his cuttings. 

'* Here is an advertisement which will 
interest you, 1 ' said he. " It appeared in all 
the papers about a year ago. Listen to 
this : — * Lost, on the 9th inst*, Mr. Jeremiah 
Hay ling , aged 26, a hydraulic engineer. 
Left his lodgings at ten o'clock at night, 
and has not been heard of since. Was 
dressed in, T &c, &c. Ha! That represents 
the last time that the Colonel needed to 
have his machine overhauled, I fancy/' 

"Good heavens! 1 ' cried my patient, 
" Then that explain! what the girl said," 




11 Undoubtedly. It is quite clear that the 
Colonel was a cool and desperate man, who 
was absolutely determined that nothing 
should stand in the way of his little game, 
like those out-and-out pirates who will 
leave no survivor from a captured ship. 
Well, every moment now is precious, so, if 
you feel equal to it, we shall go down to 
Scotland Yard at t>nce as a preliminary to 
starting for Eyford." 

Some three hours or so afterwards we 
were all in the train together, bound from 
Reading to the little Berkshire village. 
There were Sherlock Holmes, the hydraulic 
engineer, Inspector Bradstreet of Scotland- 
vard, a plain-clothes man, and myself, 
ferad street had spread an ordnance map of 
the county out upon the seat, and was busy 
with his compasses drawing a circle with 
Eyford for its centre. 

44 There you are," said he. " That circle 
is drawn at a radius of ten miles from the 
village. The place we want must be some- 
where near that line. You said ten miles, 
I think, sir ? " 

44 It was an hour's good drive.'' 

44 And you think that they brought you 
back all that way when you were uncon- 
scious ? " 

44 They must have done so. I have a 
confused memory, too, of having been lifted 
and conveyed somewhere." 

44 What I cannot understand," said I, 44 is 
why they should have spared you when 
they found you lying fainting in the garden. 
Perhaps the villain was softened by the 
woman's entreaties." 

44 1 hardly think that likely. I never saw 
a more inexorable face in my life." 

44 Oh, we shall soon clear up all that," 
said Bradstreet. 44 Well, I have drawn my 
circle, and I only wish I knew at what point 
upon it the folk that we are in search of 
are to be found." 

44 1 think I could lay my finger on it," 
said Holmes, quietly. 

44 Really, now ! " cried the Inspector, 
44 you have formed your opinion ! Come 
now, we shall see who agrees with you. I 
say it is south, for the country is more 
deserted there." 

44 And I say east," said my patient. 

44 1 am for west," remarked the plain- 
clothes man. 4i There are several quiet 
little villages up there." 

14 And I am for north," said I ; 44 because 
there are no hills there, and our friend says 
that he did not notice the carriage go up any." 

44 Come," cried the Inspector; laughing j 

a it's a very pretty diversity of opinion. 
We have boxed the compass among us. 
Who do you give your casting vote to ? " 

44 You are all wrong." 

44 But we can't all be." 

44 Oh yes, you can. This is my point," he 
placed his finger in the centre of the circle. 
44 This is where we shall find them." 

44 But the twelve-mile drive?" gasped 

44 Six out and six back. Nothing simpler. 
You say yourself that the horse was fresh 
and glossy when you got in. How could 
it be that, if it had gone twelve miles over 
heavy roads ? " 

44 Indeed it is a likely ruse enough," ob- 
served Bradstreet, thoughtfully. 44 Of course 
there can be no doubt as to the nature of 
this gang." 

44 None at all," said Holmes. 44 They 
are coiners on a large scale, and have used 
the machine to form the amalgam which 
has taken the place of silver." 

44 We have known for some time that a 
clever gang was at work;" said the Inspec- 
tor. 44 They have been turning out half- 
crowns by the thousand. We even traced 
them as far as Reading, but could get no 
further ; for they had covered their traces in 
a way that showed that they were very old 
hands. But now, thanks to this lucky 
chance, I think that we have got them 
right enough." 

But the Inspector was mistaken, for those 
criminals were not destined to fall into the 
hands of justice. As we rolled into Eyford 
Station we saw a gigantic column of smoke 
which streamed up from behind a small 
clump of trees in the neighbourhood, and 
hung like an immense ostrich feather over 
the landscape. 

44 A house on fire ? " asked Bradstreet, as 
the train steamed off again on its way. 

fci Yes, sir ! " said the station-master. 

44 When did it break out ? " 

44 1 hear that it was during the night, sir, 
but it has got worse, and the whole place is 
in a blaze." 

44 Whose house is it ? " 

44 Dr. Becher's." 

44 Tell me," broke in the engineer, "is 
Dr. Becher a German, very thin, with a 
long sharp nose ? " 

The station-master laughed heartily. 
44 No, sir, Dr. Becher is an Englishman, and 
there isn't a man in the parish who has a 
better-lined But he has a gentle- 
man staying with liuri, a patient, as I un- 
dersiainii v who is si foreigner, and he looks 



as if a little good Berkshire 
beef would do him no harm /' 
The station -master had 
not finished his speech be- 
fore we were all hastening 
in the direction of the fire. 
The road topped a low hill, 
and there was a great wide- 
spread white- washed build- 
ing in front of us, spouting 
fire at every chink and win- 
dow, while in the garden in 


front three fire-engines were vainly striving 
to keep the flames under, 

w That's it ! " cried Hatherley, in intense 
excitement* " There is the gravel drive, 
and there are the rose-bushes where I lay. 
That second window is the one that I 
jumped from/' 

" Well, at least/ 1 said Holmes, " you have 
had your revenge upon them. There can 
be no question that it was your oil I a nip 
which, when it was crushed in the press, 
set fire to the wooden walls, though no 
doubt they were too excited in the chase 
after you to observe it at the time. Now 
teep your eyes open in this crowd for your 
friends of last night, though 1 verv much 
fear that they are a good hundred miles off 
by now." 

And Holmes 1 fears came to be realised, 
for from that day to this no word has ever 
been heard either of the beautiful woman, 
the sinister German, or the morose English- 
man. Early that morning a peasant bad 

met a cart containing several 
people and some very bulky 
boxes driving rapidly in the 
direction of Reading, but there 
all traces of the fugitives dis- 
appeared, and even Holmes 1 
ingenuity failed ever to dis- 
cover the least clue as to their 

The firemen had been much 
perturbed at the strange ar- 
rangements which they had 
found within, and still more 
so by discovering a newly 
severed human thumb upon 
a window-sill of the second 
floor. About sunset, however, 
their efforts were at last suc- 
cessful, and they subdued the 
flames, but not before the roof 
had fallen in, and the whole 
place been reduced to such 
absolute ruin that, save some 
twisted cylinders and iron pip- 
ing, not a trace remained of 
the machinery which had cost 
our unfortunate acquaintance 
so dearly. Large masses of 
nickel and of tin were discov- 
ered stored in an outhouse, 
but no coins were to be found, 
which may have explained the 
presence of those bulky boxes 
which have been already re- 
ferred to. 

How our hydraulic engineer 
had been conveyed from the garden to the 
spot where he recovered his senses might 
have remained for ever a mystery were it 
not for the soft mould, which told us a very 
plain tale, He had evidently been carried 
down by two persons, one of whom had re- 
markably small feet and the other unusually 
large ones. On the whole, it was most 
probable that the silent Englishman, being 
less bold or less murderous than his com- 
panion, had assisted the woman to b^ar the 
unconscious man out of the way of danger. 
11 Well/ 7 said our engineer ruefully, as 
we took our seats to return once more to 
London, " it has been a pretty business for 
me ! I have lost my thumb, and I have 
lost a fifty-guinea fee, and what have I 
gained ? w 

"Experience, 1 ' said Holmes laughing. 
li Indirectly it may be of value, you know ; 
you have only to put it into words to gain 
the reputation of being excellent company 
for the remainder of your existence," 



Sir John Luhuock, Bart,, M.P. 

SURAL life/* says Cicero, "is 
not delightful by reason of 
cornfields only and meadows, 
and vineyards and groves, 
but also for its gardens and 
orchards ; for the feeding of 
cattle, the swarms of bees, and the variety 
of all kinds of flowers. 11 Bacon considered 
that a garden is " the greatest refreshment 
to the spirits of man ; without which 
bui Mings and palaces are but gross handi- 
works, and a man shall ever see, that when 
ages grow to civility and elegancy men 
come to build stately sooner than to garden 
finely, as if gardening were the greater 
perfection/' No doubt " the pleasure 
which we take in a garden is one of the 
most innocent delights in human life/'* 
Elsewhere there may be scattered flowers, 
or sheets of colour due to one or two 
species, but in gardens one glory follows 
another. Here are brought together all 

Quaint enamelled eyes, 
That on lb e green turf suck the honeyed showers, 
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken die B, 

Digitized by L^OOQle 

The tufted crow- toe, and pale jessamine, 

The while pink and the pansy freaked with jet, 

The glowing violet, 

The musk rose, and the wel I -attired woodbine, 

With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, 

And every flower that sad embroidery wears.* 

We cannot , happily we need not try to, 
contrast or compare the beauty of gardens 
with that of woods and fields. 

And yet, to the true lover of Nature, 
wild flowers have a charm which no garden 
can equal. Cultivated plants are but a 
living herbarium. They surpass, no doubt T 
the dried specimens of a museum ; but, 
lovely as they are, they can be no more 
compared with the natural vegetation of 
our woods and fields, than the captives in 
the Zoological Gardens with the same wild 
species in their native forests and moun- 

Often, indeed, our woods and fields even 
rival gardens in the richness of colour. 
We have all seen meadows glorious with 
Narcissus and early purple Orchis, Cowslips, 
Buttercups, or Cuckoo flowers ; cornfields 
blazing with Poppies ; woods carpeted with 
Bluebells, Anemones, Primroses, and Forget - 

a ■ ■ * Milton 




me-nots ; commons with the yellow Lady's- 
bedstraw, Harebells, and the sweet Thyme ; 
marshy places with the yellow stars of the 
Bog Asphodel, the Sundew sparkling with 
diamonds, Ragged Robin, the beautifully 
fringed petals of the Buckbean, the lovely 
little Bog Pimpernel, or the feathery tufts of 
Cotton grass ; hedgerows with Hawthorn 
and Traveller's Joy, wild Rose, Honeysuckle, 
and Bryony ; underneath are the curious 
leaves and orange fruit of the Lords and 
Ladies, the snowy stars of the Stitchwort, 
Succory, Yarrow, and several kinds of 
Violets ; while all along the banks of streams 
are the tall, red spikes of the Loosestrife, 
the Hemp Agrimony, water Groundsel, 
Sedges, Bulrushes, flowering Rush, and 
Sweet Flag. 

Many other sweet names will also at once 
occur to us — Snowdrops, Daffodils, Hearts- 
ease, Lady's-mantles and Lady's-tresses, 
Eyebright, Milkwort, Foxgloves, Herb 
Roberts, Geraniums, and among rarer 
species, at least in England, Columbine and 

But Nature does not provide delights for 
the eye only. The other senses are not 
forgotten. A thousand sounds — many de- 
lightful in themselves, and all by associa- 
tion — songs of birds, hum of insects, rustle 
of leaves, ripple of water — seem to fill the 
air. Flowers, again, are sweet as well as 
lovely. The scent of pine woods, which is 
said to be very healthy, is certainly deli- 
cious, and the effect of woodland scenery is 
good for the mind as well as for the body. 

" Resting quietly under an ash tree, with 
the scent of flowers, and the odour of green 
buds and leaves, a ray of sunlight yonder 
lighting up the lichen and the moss on the 
oak trunk, a gentle air stirring in the 
branches above, giving glimpses of fleecy 
clouds sailing in the ether, there comes into 
the mind a feeling of intense joy in the 
simple fact of living." * 

Woods and forests were to our ancestors 
the special scenes of enchantment. 

The great ash tree Ygzdrasil bound 
together heaven, earth, and hell. Its top 
reached to heaven, its branches covered the 
earth, and the roots penetrated into hell. 
The three Normas, or Fates, sat under 
it spinning the thread of life. 

Of all the gods and goddesses of classical 
mythology or our own folk-lore, none were 
more fascinating than the Nature Spirits, 
Elves and Fairies, Nee khans and Kelpies, 

• Jefferies' "Wild Life in a Southern Country," 

Digitized by dOOgle 

Pixies and Ouphes, Mermaids, Undines, 
Water Spirits, and all the Elfin World— 

Which have their haunts in dale and piny mountain, 
Or forests, by slow stream or tingling brook . 

They come out, as we are told, especially on 
moonlight nights. But while evening thus 
clothes many a scene with poetry, forests 
are fairyland all day long. 

Almost any wood contains many and 
many a spot well suited for fairy feasts ; 
where one might almost expect to find 
Titania resting, as once we are told : 

She lay upon a bank, the favourite haunt 
Of the spring wind in its first sunshine hour, 
For the luxuriant strawberry blossoms spread 
Like a snow shower then, and violets 
Bowed down their purple vases of perfume 
About her pillow — linked in a gay band 
Floated fantastic shapes ; these were her guards, 
Her lithe and rainbow elves. 

In early spring the woods are bright with 
the feathery catkins of the willow, followed 
by the bright green of the beech, the 
white or pink flowers of the thorn, the 
pyramids of the horse-chestnut, festoons of 
the laburnum and acacia, while the oak 
slowly wakes from its winter sleep, and the 
ash leaves long linger in their black buds. 

Under foot is a carpet of flowers — 
anemones, cowslips, primroses, bluebells ; 
and the golden blossoms of the broom, 
which, however, while gorse and heather 
continue in bloom for months, " blazes for 
a week or two, and is then completely ex- 
tinguished, like a fire that has burnt itself 

In summer the tints grow darker, the 
birds are more numerous and full of life, 
the air teems with insects, with the busy 
murmur of bees and the idle hum of flies, 
while the cool of morning and evening, and 
the heat of the day are all alike delicious. 

As the year advances and the flowers 
wane, we have many beautiful fruits and 
berries, the red hips and haws of the wild 
roses, scarlet hollyberries, crimson yew 
cups, the translucent berries of the guelder 
rose, hanging coral clusters of the black 
bryony, feathery festoons of the traveller's 
joy, and many others less conspicuous, but 
still exquisite in themselves — acorns, beech 
nuts, ash-keys, and many more. 

It is really difficult to say which are 
most beautiful, the tender greens of spring, 
or the rich tints of autumn, which glow so 
brightly in the sunshine. 

Tropical fruits are even more striking. 
No one who has seen it can ever forget a 

# Hammers 




grove of orange trees in full fruit ; while 
the more we examine the more wu find 
to admire — all perfectly and exquisitely 
finished " usque ad ungues, 1 ' perfect inside 
and outside, for Nature 

Does 111 the pomegranate close. 
Jewels more rare than Or in us shows.* 

In winter the woods are comparatively 
bare and lifeless, even the brambles and 
woodbine, which straggle over the tangle 
of underwood, being almost leafless. 

Still, even then they have a beauty and 
interest of their own : the mossy boles of 
the trees, the delicate tracery of the 

numerous, many of our birds being then far 
away in the dense African forests, on the 
other hand those which remain are much 
more easily visible. We can follow the 
birds from tree to tree and the squirrel 
from bough to bough. 

It requires little imagination to regard 
trees as conscious beings ; indeed, it is almost 
an effort not to do so. 

* ( The various action of trees," says 
Raskin, M rooting themselves in inhos- 
pitable rocks, stooping to look into ravines, 
hiding from the search of glacier winds, 
reaching forth to the rays of rare sun- 
shine, crowding down together to drink 
at sweetest streams, climbing hand in hand 
among the difficult dopes, opening in 
sudden dances among 
the mossy knolls, 
gathering into com- 
panies at rest among the 
fragrant fields, gliding 
in grave procession over 
the heavenward ridges 
— nothing of this can 
be conceived among the 
unvexed and unvaried 

branches, which can 
hardly be appreciated 
when they are covered with leaves, 
and under foot the beds of fallen 
leaves ; while the evergreens seem 
brighter than in summer, the ruddy 
stems and rich green foliage of the 
Scotch pines and the dark spires of 
the firs seeming to acquire fresh beauty. 

Again, in winter, though no doubt the 
living tenants of the woods are much less 



felicities of the lowland forest : while to all 
these direct sources of greater beauty are 
added, first the power of redundance— 
the mere quantity of foliage visible in 
the folds auid on the promontories of a 




single Alp being greater than that of an 
entire lowland landscape {unless a view from 
some Cathedral tower) ; add to this charm 
of redundance that of clearer visibility — 
tree after tree being constantly shown in 
successive height, one behind another, in- 
stead of the mere tops and flanks of masses, 
as in the plains ; and the forms of multi- 
tudes of them continually defined against 
the clear sky T near and above, or against 
white clouds entangled among their 
branches, instead of being confused in 
dimness of distance.- 1 

There is much that is interesting in the 
relations of one species to another. Many 
plants are parasitic upon others. The foli- 
age of the beech is so thick that scarcely 
anything will grow under it except those 
spring plants 3 such as the anemone and the 
wood buttercup or goldylocks, which 
flower early be- 
fore the beech 
is in leaf. 

Another very remarkable case which ha* 
recently been observed is the relation exist- 
ing between some of our forest trees and 
certain fungi the species of which have 
not yet been clearly ascertained* The root 
tips of the trees are, us it were, enclosed in 
a thin sheet of closely woven mycelium. It 
was at first supposed that the fungus was 
attacking the roots of the tree, but it is 
now considered that the tree and the fun- 
gus mutually benefit one another* The 
fungus collects nutriment from the soil, 
which passes into the tree and up to the 
leaves, where it is elaborated into sap T the 
greater part being utilised by the tree, but 
a portion reabsorbed by the fungus. There 
is reason to think that, in some cases at 
any rate, the mycelium is that of the 

The great tropical forests have a totally 
different character from ours. 

Sir Wyville Thomson graphically de- 
scribes a morning in a Brazilian forest :— 

* 4 The night was almost absolutely silent. 

There are other cases in which the reason 
for the association of species is less evident. 
The Larch and the Arolla (Pituts ccmhra} 
are close companions, They grow together 
in Siberia : they do not occur in Scan- 
dinavia or Russia, but both appear in cer- 
tain Swiss valleys, especially in the cantons 
of Lucerne and Valais and the Engadine. 



Only now and then a peculiarly shrill cry 
of some night bird reached us from the 
woods. As we got into the skirt of the 
forest, the morning broke, but the re veil in 
a Brazilian forest is wonderfully different 

Original from 




from the slow creeping on of the dawn of a 
summer morning at home, to the music of 
the thrushes answering one another's full 
rich notes from neighbouring thorn-trees. 
Suddenly a yellow light spreads upwards in 
the east, the stars quickly fade, and the dark 
fringes of the forest and the tall palms show 
out black against the yellow sky, and almost 
before one has time to observe the change 
the sun has risen straight and fierce, and 
the whole landscape h bathed in the hill 
light of day. But the morning is yet for 
another hour cool and fresh, and the scene 
is indescribably beautiful. The woods, so 
absolutely silent and still before, break at 
once into noise and movement. Flocks of 
toucans flutter and scream on the tops of 
the highest forest trees, hopelessly out of 
shot ; the ear is pierced by the strange wild 
screeches of a little band of macaws which 
fly past you like the wrapped -up ghosts of 
the birds on some gaudy old brocade," 1 

In our own country, though woodlands 
are perhaps on the increase, true forest 
scenery is gradually disappearing. This 
is, I suppose, unavoidable, but it is a 
matter of regret. Forests have so many 
charms of their 
own. They give 
delightful impres- 
sions of space and 
of abundance. 

The extrava- 
gance is sublime. 
Trees, as JefTeries 
says, lt throw away 
h a n d f u 1 s of fl o wer a ; 
but in the meadows 
the careless, spend- 
thrift ways of grass 
and flower and all 
things are not to 
be expressed. Seeds by the 
hundred million float with 
absolute indifference on the 
air. The oak has a hundred 
thousand more leaves than 
necessary, and never hides a 
single acorn, Nothing utili- 
tarian — everything on a scale 
of splendid waste. Such 
noble, broadcast, open-armed waste 
is delicious to behold. Never was 
there such a lying proverb as 
4 Enough is as good as a feast.' Give 
me the feast, give me squandered 
millions of seeds, luxurious carpets 

petals, green mountains of oak-leaves. The 
greater the waste, the greater the enjoyment 
—the nearer the approach to real life." 

Nowhere is woodland scenery more 
beautiful than where it passes gradually 
into the open country. The separate trees, 
having more room both for their roots and 
branches, are finer, and can be better seen, 




while when 
they are close 
together M one 
cannot see the 
wood for the 
trees. " The 
vistas which 
open out are 
full nf mystery 
and of pro* 
mise, and 
tempt us 
gradually out 
into the green 

What plea- 
words Tecall, 

Thomson's " Voyage of the C&afiengtr. 1 ' 

sant memories these 

games in the hay as children, and sunny 

summer days throughout life. 

university of Michigan 



" Go out/ 1 says Ruskin, " in the spring 
time, among the meadows that si ope from the 
shores of the Swiss lakes to the roots of their 
lower mountains. There, mingled with the 
taller gentians and the white narcissus, the 
grass grows deep and free ; and, as you fol- 
low the winding mountain paths, beneath 
arching houghs all veiled and dim with 
blossom — paths that for ever droop and rise 
over the green banks and mounds, sweeping 
down in scented undulation, steep to the 
blue water, studded here and there with 
new- mown heaps, filling all the air with 
fainter sweetness — look up towards the 
higher hills, where the waves of everlasting 
green roll silently into their long inlets 
among the shadows of the pines ; and we 
may, perhaps, at last know the meaning of 
those quiet words of the 147th Psalm : 
1 He maketh the grass to grow upon the 
mountains/ n 

In the passage just quoted, Ruskin alludes 
especially to Swiss meadows. They are es- 
pecially remarkable in the beauty and 
variety of flowers. In our fields the herbage 
is mainly grass, and if it often happens that 
they glow with buttercups or are white with 
ox-eye daisies, these are but unwelcome 
intruders, and add nothing to the value of 
the hay. Swiss 
meadows, on the 
contrary, are sweet 
and lovely with 
wild geraniums, 
harebells, bluebells, 
pink restharrow, 
yellow lady ^-bed- 
straw, chervil, eye- 
bright, red and 
white silenes, gera- 
niums, gentians, 
and many other 
flowers which have 
no familiar names, 
all adding, not only 
to the beauty and 
sweetness of the 
meadows, but form- 
ing a valuable part 
of the crop itself. 41 

On the downs, 
indeed, things change slowly, and in parts 
of Sussex the strong, slow oxen still draw 
the wagons laden with warm hay or golden 
wheat sheaves, or drag the wooden plough 

along the slopes of the downs, just as they 
did a thousand years ago. 

I love the open downs most, but without 
hedges England would not be England. 
Hedges are everywhere full of beauty and 
interest, and nowhere more so than at the 
foot of the downs, where they are in great 
part composed of wild guelder roses and 
rich, dark yews, decked with festoons of 
traveller's joy, the wild bryonies, and gar- 
lands of wild roses covered with thousands 
of white or delicate pink flowers, each with 
a centre of gold. 

At the foot of the downs spring spark- 
ing, clear streams ; rain from heaven puri- 
fied still further by being filtered through a 
thousand feet of chalk ; fringed with purple 
loosestrife, and willowherb, starred with 
white water ranunculuses, or rich water- 
cress, while every now and then a brown 
water-rat rustles in the grasses at the edge, 
and splashes into the water, or a pink 
speckled trout glides out of sight. 

In many of our Midland and Northern 


* M, Correvon informs me lhat the Gray fere cheese 
is supposed to owe its peculiar flavour to the Alpine 
AkktmiUa* which is now on that account often pur- 
posely grown elsewhere. 

)y W 


counties most of the 
meadows lie in parallel 
undulations or u rigs.*' 
These are generally 
about a furlong [220 yards) in length, and 
either one or two poles (5+ ot tt yards) in 
breadth. They seldom run straight, but 
tend to curve towards the left. At each 
end of the field a high bank, locally called 
a balk, often three or four feet high, runs at 




right angles to the rigs. In small fields 
there are generally eight, but sometimes ten, 
of these rigs, which make in the one case 
four, in the other five acres. These curious 
characters carry us back to the old tenures, 
and archaic cultivation of land, and to a 
period when the fields were not in pasture, 
hut wert arable. 

The team generally consisted of eight 
Few peasants, however, possessed a 


whole team, several generally joining to- 
gether and dividing the produce. Hence 
the number of H rigs," one for each ox. We 
often, however, find ten instead of eight ; 
one being for the parson's tithe, the other 
tenth going to the ploughman. 

When eight oxen were employed, the 
goad would not, of course, reach the leaders, 
which were guided by a man who walked 
on the near side. On arriving at the end 
of each furrow, he turned them round, and, 
as it was easier to pull than to push them, 
this gradually gave the furrow a turn 
towards the left, thus accounting for the 
slight curvature. Lastly, while the oxen 
rested on arriving at the end of the furrow, 
the ploughman scraped off the earth which 
had accumulated on the coulter and plough - 
share, and the accumulation of these scrap- 
ings gradually formed the balk. 

It is fascinating thus to trace indications 
of old customs and modes of life, but it would 
carry us away from the present subject. 

Even though the Swiss meadows may 
offer a greater variety, our English fields 
are yet rich m flowers : yellow with cow- 
slips and primroses, pink with cuckoo 
flowers and purple with orchis, while butter- 
cups, however unwelcome to the eye of the 
farmer, turn many a meadow into a writ- 
able field of the cloth of gold, and there aiv 
few prettier sights in nature than an English 
hay-field on a summer evening, with a 
copse, perhaps, at one side, and a brook on 
the other ; men with forks tossing the hay 
in the air to dry ; women with wooden 
rakes arranging it in sw r aithes ready for the 
great four-horse waggon, or collecting it in 
cocks for the night ; w T hile some way off 
the mowers are still at work, and we hear 
from time to time the pleasant sound of the 
sharpening of the scythe. All are working 
with a will, lest rain should come and their 
labour be thrown away. This too often 
happens* But, though we often complain 
of our English climate, it is yet, take it all 
in all, one of the best in the world, being 
comparatively free from extremes eitheT of 
heat or cold, drought or deluge. To the 
happy mixture of sunshine and rain we 
owe the greenness of our fields, lit and 

Warmed by golden sunshine, 

And fed b}- silver rain, 

which now and again sprinkles the whole 
earth with diamonds. 

by Google 

Original from 

The Curates Temptation. 

By Maurtcf Saxon. 

HE Rev. Oswald Campion 
sat deep in thought in a small 
room in Walworth, His 
thin and naturally thought- 
ful face wore a worried and 
hopeless look, and his tall 
figure seemed to stoop under 
some heavy burden- u How 
will it all end ? " he mur- 
mured ; u God help me in 
this trouble." Wearily he 
arose and crossed to the fire- 
place* He strove to warm 
his numbed fingers over the 
small handful of embers in 
the grate, then with a sigh 
rested his arm on the man- 
telpiece. Again he sighed, 
and passed his long, thin 
hands over his brow. A sud- 
den terrible thought occurred 

him wistfully as he looked at his new-born 

Ai Cheer up, Edith, my darling/ 1 he said, 
brightly, as he kissed her pale face ; u you 
will soon be well again now T , and then we 
will get away from this dreadful London/ 1 

M Ah ! Oswald/' she whispered, pressing 
his hand affectionately, %i if w T e could do m ! 

< ( God of 
u add not 



to him, 

he cried, "add not that 

my cup of bitterness ! M 

He started violently as the 
door was opened, and a gen- 
tleman entered quietly. 

Campion tried to speak, 
but his dry lips refused their 
office. Seeing his agitation, 
his visitor said, calmly : 

U I congratulate you, Mr, 
Campion ; you have a son/ 1 

u And my wife ? " 

" Is doing as well as can be 
expected ; but, as you know, 
she is far from strong^ and 
requires every care," 

** I know/' said the clergy- 
man, sadly. " May I go and see her ? " 

" Certainly, but do not excite her/' 

Campion's pale face flushed, but it was 
by excitement rather 'than joy, for the 
weight on his heart was too heavy to be 
easily raised. With merely a slight bow to 
the medical man, he went upstairs. 

During the few minutes he was allowed 
to remain in his wife's room he strove 
desperately to hide his anxiety and en- 
courage the girl-mother, who glanced at 

Digitized by G* 


- But I am so troubled to know how 

we shall manage now/ 1 

14 You mustn't bother yourself, dearest. 
We shall do splendidly. I have heard of a 
first-rate curacy, and I have every hope 
that I shall obtain it. So keep up your 

"But meantime, dear, what are we to 

" Do ? Why, pull on as best we can." 

" But have you any money, Oswald ? 

You know you told me yesterday you did 

not know what to do for some." 
unqinal from 




" Yesterday ! Oh ! that was a long time 
ago. I have plenty now, Robinson has 
paid me that thirty shillings that has been 
owing so long, so for the present we are 
quite rich," he said, gaily. 

"■But, Oswald " 

" There, darling ; Dr. Thornton said you 
were not to be excited, so I must not let 
you talk any more/' 

He kissed her again, as an old woman, 
who was doing duty as nurse, entered, and 
then quietly withdrew. 

He paused on the landing, and a look of 
blank despair settled on his features. " God 
forgive me for those lies ! " he thought. 
"But I could not let my poor girl lie 
there, weak and ill, and fret about money 
affairs. It is bad enough to have to do 
so when you are well and strong, but for 
her now it would be terrible." 

He re-entered his room and sat down at 
the table. Then he proceeded to turn out 
his pockets. He found a solitary sixpence 
and fourpence halfpenny in bronze and 
placed it before him. He surveyed his 
possessions and murmured bitterly : 
" Something must be done at once. I will 
cast my ridiculous pride on one side, and 
will call on Mr. Pearson. I don't suppose 
it is much after three, so I shall have time to 
catch him to-day." Without hesitation he 
put on his hat — which unfortunately gave 
too evident signs of its owner's impecu- 
niosity — and left the house. 

Oswald Campion's was a common case. 
The only son of a struggling professional 
man, he had received a good school edu- 
cation and had finally been sent < to the 
University of Oxford. He obtained his 
degree with honours, and then had decided 
to take " Orders." Almost as soon as he 
had done so he obtained a curacy in the 
Midlands with a stipend of £%o a year. 

Here he had met Edith Burton, the 
orphan daughter of a local lawyer, and their 
acquaintance had speedily ripened into love. 
Meanwhile, Campion's father died, leaving 
only sufficient property to ensure his widow 
a bare maintenance. As time went on the 
young man pressed his sweetheart to marry 
him at once, and painted such glowing pic- 
tures of their future, brightened by love 
and ennobled by their religious work, that 
the girl at last consented. 

Their bright views early received a rude 
shock. Campion's marriage much displeased 
his rector, who fully understood that a 
" single " curate made a church attractive 
to the spinster element of the congregation* 

Sq one day, when Oswald had preached a 
sermon embodying bold and striking views, 
the rector seized the opportunity to cast 
doubts on the young man s orthodoxy and 
to gently hint that he might find a more 
congenial sphere of work elsewhere. 

The curate's sensitive nature was wounded, 
and, without weighing the consequences, 
he promptly resigned his charge. Then he 
came to London, where he thought his 
sincerity would ensure him success. Alas ! 
he knew not the modern Babylon. Too 
proud to play the toady, he was over- 
looked by the powerful. Too sincere and 
intellectual to preach commonplace but 
" taking " sermons, he could not impress 
the masses, and, lacking assumption and 
confidence, he was pushed aside by inferior 
but stronger men. Thus it was that after 
six months' struggle he felt that he had 
exhausted every resource, but found himself 
with a sick wife and young infant to pro- 
vide for on a capital of io^d., and prospects 


Wearily, and with flagging footsteps, 
Campion took his way along the Borough, 
and over London bridge. He looked long- 
ingly at the omnibuses going westward, 
but he felt that his small capital would not 
justify the expenditure of even a penny ; 
so he plodded onwards. It was February, 
and snow was falling thickly, so that the 
streets were " slushy " ; and the cold air 
affected even the well clad. The poor 
curate, in his threadbare clothes, and with- 
out an overcoat, felt the keen weather 
intensely ; and his sensitive body suffered 
an amount of discomfort that coarser 
natures never experience. Every step re- 
minded him that his boots were worn down 
at the heels, and a suspicious " whish " and 
feeling of dampness to his toes warned him 
that one of them was not even weather- 
proof. At last he paused in front of a 
large warehouse in Cannon -street. He 
glanced up, and saw the name, " Pearson & 
Cp., Papermakers," and knew that he had 
reached his destination. He paused, how- 
ever, on the threshold, feeling that terrible 
sinking that occurs to nervous men when 
they find themselves in a position repug- 
nant to their feelings. At last he sum- 
moned up sufficient courage to enter the 
office. A dapper young clerk stared at him 
rudely, and then, with an easy air of inso- 
lence, asked him what he required. 

"I wish to see Mr. Pearson," 
UTTIV u\j\\\ u r mi LnPor.n 



u Hum ! I know he is very busy, Can 
you state your business ? " 

w Certainly not r to you, sir/ 1 said the 
curate T in a tone that caused the other 
evident surprise* He, however, crossed to 
a senior clerk and made a whispered com- 
munication. Theelderman glanced round, 
and then said in a tone loud enough to 
reach Campion : " Oh, you had better take 
up his name. The governor's always will- 
ing to see a parson." The young man 
recrossed to the curate, and taking his card 
disappeared into an inner room. Presently 
he returned, saying, u Step this way, please." 
Campion followed his conductor, and was 
ushered into a plainly but comfortably fur- 
nished office. He saw before him a stout, 
pompous-looking gentleman seated at a 
desk, who glanced up 
as his visitor entered, 
but hope died out of 
the curate's heart as 
he caught the look of 
complacency on the 
florid countenance. 

Mr. Pearson 
pushed his papers on 
one side, and, with a 
pious look, said — 

* ( Take a seat, Mr. 
Campion ; I am 
always glad to see 
the ministers of 
God, although I am 
unusually busy just 
at present/' 

4i I would not will- 
ingly disturb you ; I 
can call some other 
time. 1 ' 

"By no means, my 
fr i e n d . My motto 
has always been God's 
work before worldly affairs, and I judge by 
your garb that you come in His name." 

M I trust so," said the curate; then 
plunging into his business, he continued : 
" I saw your advertisement in yesterday's 
Telegraph, asking for clerical or lay workers 
for your East- end Mission, and I thought 

perhaps " 

11 That we could utilise your services. 
Indeed, we can. There is work enough 
for all in the Lord's vineyard. Have you 
an appointment in London ? " 

" Unfortunately t I have not at present." 

" And, naturally, you do not wish to 

waste time that is so precious and can 

never be recovered. We will gladly enrol 


you amongst our workers. The harvest is 
great, but, alas ! the labourers are few," 
said Mr, Pearson, turning his eyes up- 

Campion paused, then said desperately : 
" 1 fear you do not quite understand me. 1 
am anxious^ most anxious, to work, but I 
have a wife and child to consider. What 
I therefore seek is employment that will 
afford at least some slight pecuniary return, 
I thought you might ,T 

''What ? " interrupted the other, opening 
his eyes wide in astonishment. u What do 
I hear ? Do you come to tell me that you 
wish to enter our grand cause from mer- 
cenary motives ? " 

'* Certainly not, sir, but surely i the work- 
man is worthy of his hire/ M 

11 Alas ! that holy text is too often made 
an excuse for avariciousness," said the other, 
raising his hand deprecatingly. "But let 
us not bandy words. If /give my services, 
surely I have a right to expect other* to do 
the same." 

" Truly, sir, but you are wealthy, you 
can afford it. If you had a wife and cfiild 
wanting the bare necessaries of life, would 
you then be willing to do so ? " 

[( I see," said Pearson, raising his eyebrows 
superciliously. M I quite misunderstood 
you. I did not think you were one of 
those unscrupulous individuals who don 
the gaTb of a clergyman as an excuse for 




"Sir" said Campion, indignantly 
at least entitled to my costume, I am 
ordained, and " 

"Well, well," said the other, "I 

" lam 



neither time nor inclination to listen to your 
private affairs. ,J Then he struck a bell, and 
as his clerk entered, said — 

u Johnson, show this person out." 
Campion retired, feeling terribly humi- 
liated ; as he opened the office door he 
heard the clerk, with a laugh, say to his 
col league j " I thought he looked too seedy 
to be up to much + " 

Utterly dejected, Campion walked back 
towards London bridge. It was five 
o'clock, and the streets were, comparatively 
speaking, quiet. The snow was still falling, 
and an east wind drove it fiercely into the 
faces of the pedestrians. He had 
tasted nothing since breakfast! and 
paused as he came to a confec- 
tioner's. The simple cakes looked 
very tempting to the hungry man, 
but heroically he moved on, deter- 
mined not to lessen his small store. 
Just then an elderly gentleman 
came out of the shop, and turned 
up the street in front of the curate. 
The young man followed aimlessly, 
and almost unconsciously kept his 
eyes fixed on the figure before him. 
Suddenly the stranger placed his 
hand in his pocket and drew out 
his handkerchief, apparently to 
wipe the snow from his face. As he 
did so Campion noticed something 
fall into the snow with a dull thud. 
He quickened his steps, uttering a 
feeble u Stop, sir!' 1 but the wind 
carried away his voice. He stopped 
and picked up the article, and 
shuddered violently when he found 
a purse in his hand, that from 
its weight seemed to be well 
filled. Visions of the import- 
ance of the treasure to him 
flashed through his mind, and 
for a moment he determined 
to retain it. Then the natural ..- 
honesty of his pure nature as- -J 
serted itself, and he looked 
round for the owner, The 
delay, however, had been fatal ; 
he just caught sight of the old 
gentleman stepping into a han- 
som, and then the vehicle 

With mingled feelings that he could not 
analyse, the curate walked homewards. 
He forgot his weariness and his hunger ; 
even the biting wind and cold driving sleet 
affected him not, for he was at war with 
himself A terrible temptation was before 
him. On the one side was his upright 
nature, and on the other his love for his 
helpless wife and child. Unconsciously he 
passed onwards until he reached his home. 


In his own room once more Oswald took 
out the purse j and examined its exterior 
carefully. Then he opened it, and turned 
its contents out on the table. His head 
swam as he saw the unusual glitter of gold ; 
and with amazement he counted the coins. 

rolled off, leaving the young 
man too bewildered to follow 



by LiOOglC 

he I JLE PURSE IN MIS hand/ 




Five sovereigns, two half-sovereigns, and a 
total of sixteen shillings in silver* He sur- 
veyed the treasure with startled eyes, and 
murmured, '* It is a fortune ; such a sum 
would tide us over our present difficulties, 
and with Edith strong again I could once 
more try for work/' Then he pushed the 
money from him crying, U I will not be 
tempted ; I will not imperil my soul ; I 
will return it!'' He half turned as if to 
carry his purpose into instant execution, but 
suddenly remembered he had no means of 
tracing the owner. As the thought occurred 
to him he once more examined the purse, 
but, despite himself, he 
relieved when he 
found neither name 
nor address, Stay ! 
In his hurry he has 
overlooked the 
ticket pocket* What 
is in it ? A card ! 
He draws it out, 
and in astonish- 
ment reads — ** Mr. 
George Morley, 59, 

41 What ! » he 
cried. li This is in- 
deed miraculous. 
My father's friend, 
the man who owed 
so much to him. 
Surely the hand of 
the Almighty is in 
all this ! I will go 
to him. He will 
help me, for my 
father's sake. Ah ! 
but will he ? Did I 
not write to him 
some months ago ? 
Did I not open my 
soul to him , and 

yet he has not even deigned to reply to 
me, Alas! my last hope is dead. Doubt- 
less he will take his money, and let me and 
my darlings starve. Yet no, by Heaven ! 
it shall not be. For myself I care nothing, 
but they shall not suffer. Let the sin 
and its consequences be mine, and mine 
alone ; I will keep what God 
into my hand." He paced 
excitedly, still dragged first 
then that, by 
he was roused 

She paused as she noticed the strange, 





conflicting emotions, till 
bv the entrance of his 

stern look on the curate's face. Then, 
standing by the open door, said — 

"I'm mortal sorry to trouble you, Mr. 
Campion ; I'm sure it grieves me sorely to 
think of your good lady ill upstairs, but I 
am in great straits myself, and if I don't 
get some money I T m sure I don 1 ! know 
what will become of us. 11 

The young man looked at the woman 
gravely as he answered — 

il You have been more than kind to us, 
Mrs, Martin ; you have helped us when 
you were ill able to do so, and, believe rne t 

I am not ungrate- 
ful. Is your 
sent need so 
great ? " 

14 Indeed it is, sir. 
You know I'm a 
widow with no one 
to help me, and 
now the baker says 
he won't leave any 
more bread without 
the money ; and 
the landlord has 
just called for the 
rent, and declares 
hell distrain to- 

"I owe you two 
pounds, Mrs. Mar- 
tin. Will that be 
sufficient for your 
wants? " said Cam- 
pion, quietly. 

"Oh yes, indeed, 
sir, more than 
enough," answered 
the woman, her 
face brightening. 

"God be merciful 
to me, and pardon 
my sin ! fI said the 
curate to himself; 
U I cannot let this woman and her little ones 
suffer on my account, the temptation is too 
great." Then aloud, "Take your money, 
Mrs. Martin, there is plenty on the table. M 

As his landlady stepped forward, he 
turned to the window so that she could not 
see his facc r for he feared that his emotion 
would betray itself, 

"Oh, thank you, sir," said Mrs. Martin, 
as she picked up the coins. hi I'm truly glad 
to see you with so much, as much for yours 
and your dear wife's sake as for my own.' 1 
Then, as he did not speak, she withdrew 




Campion turned from 
the window, trembling 


violently. H Thus,'* he cried, a are my 
fetters forged. Now, there is no escape ! " 
Then he added, bitterly, " I am fit to be 
neither saint nor sinner. As I have fallen, 
at least Jet me face inv crime like a man. 
If I have lost my soul, I will take its price 
as my reward, and behave like a man, not 
like a weak-minded boy, 11 

He gathered up the money > and without 
waiting to give himself time for further 
reflection ran upstairs to his wife's room, 

The girl was awake t and received him 
with a look of love. She noticed at once 
his excited face, and, gently drawing him 
towards her, said — 

i( Have you had good fortune, dear ? " 

u Yes," he replied, cheerfully* "Indeed 
I have ; see here ! " and he showed her 
his hand full of gold and silver. 

The girl's face flushed with pleasure. Not 
for a moment did any possible suspicion of 
his honesty enter her mind. She trusted 
him to the fullest extent, and was too weak 
to question how he had become possessed 
of so much. 

She kissed his face as he bent over her, 
and murmured, "I am so thankful, Oswald. 

Now I can go to sleep com- 
fortably ; to-morrow you shall 
tell me all about your wonder- 
ful good luck/ 1 

Someone tapped gently at 
the door. The nurse came over 
to him, and whispered, "You 
are wanted, sir," He arose 
quietfry, and, with one fond 
glance at his sleeping wife, 
descended the stairs. Then he 
underwent a sudden revulsion 
of feeling, He pictured to 
himself that the police were 
waiting for him to charge him 
with theft* Before his mind 
rose a vision of his denuncia- 
tion by the owner of the lost 
purse, and in a state of nervous 
agitation he laid his hand on 
the handle of the sitting-room 


As the curate paused irreso- 
lutely at the door, Mrs, Martin 
handed him a card ; but his 
head swam so much that, in 
the dull light, he in vain tried 
to read it. Mastering his emo- 
tion, he flung open the door, 
and, with the pasteboard still in 
his hand, entered the room. He stopped, 
and almost staggered back, as he saw a 
short, stout gentleman standing with his 
back to the fire, Instinctively he recog- 
nised the owner of the purse, and an in- 
tense horror took possession of him. Hi3 
crime had found him out full soon, and, 
with the desperation of despair, he ad- 
vanced like a culprit to his doom. But 
as the mists cleared from his eyes he saw 
that his visitor's face did not bear the 
look of an avenging Nemesis. His mouth 
was parted with a genial smile, and the 
soft eyes shone with good -humour. 

The stranger sprang forward as he saw 
the curate, and, grasping the young man's 
hands in his, said, in a voice quavering 
with excitement : " My young friend, I am 
delighted to find you at last. Believe me, 
this is a happy meeting to me." 

Dumbfounded at his unexpected recep- 
tion, Campion was silent for a moment ; 
then he exclaimed, in a stiff manner, the 
better to conceal his agitation : il Sir, I am 
at a disadvantage. I have not the pleasure 
of your acquaintance/ 1 



" You have my card in your hand. Do 
you not recognise the name ? I am George 
Morley, your father's friend.'* 

M True, true/' murmured the curate, 
absently ; u but what has that to do with 

w Surely you are not well. What has it 
to do with you ? I intend it shall have a 
great deal to do with you. Besides, did you 
not write and confide in me?" 

" Yes, but that is long ago. You did not 
answer my letter/' 

"Now look here, young man, don't be 
too ready to take umbrage. Your letter 
only reached me two weeks ago, when I 
returned from the Continent You gave 
me your address at Middlethorpe, and a 
nice hunt IVe had to find you. I went 
down there at once, but your late rector 
couldn't tell me your present place of resi^ 
dence, I've been looking for you ever since, 
and had almost given up in despair, when, 
not an hour ago, I luckily thought of Pear- 
son ; he knows all the parsons, and, by a 
curious coincidence, he said you had only 
just left him ; in fact, your card was still on 
his desk ; so I came on at once." 

li Did Mr. Pearson tell you why I 
called on him, and how he received 

"I don't remember that he said 
anything special ; but he mentioned 
ou were looking for work, though 

honest man. Now, I can never hold up 
my head again/' 

Morley stood looking at the young man 
for a moment in silence, then he gently 
approached him, and laying his hand on 
his shoulder, said kindly — 

u Campion , for your lather's sake, you 
must let me help you. Whatever wrong 
you have done, Of think you have done, 
need not affect the question, You are 
over-wrought, and doubtless exaggerate 
matters, But, be that as it may, whether 
your fault is real or imaginary, it is not 
against me." 

Campion once more sprang from his 
chair, and, facing his visitor, cried out, as 
though the words were wrung from him by 

" You ! Yes, it is against you and God, 
that I have sinned. Did you not lose your 
purse to-day ?" 

u Yes, I did ; but how do you know 
that ? " 

M I saw you drop it* I picked it up. I, 
that you have imagined honest and upright, 
have stolen your 
money and paid 
my debts with it." 


don't know whether that's quite a 
correct word to use with respect to 
a clergyman's duties." 

"And why have you sought me 
out now ? " asked Campion hus- 
kily, his intense feeling making him 
brusque and almost discourteous. 

;4 0h, look here, Campion," said 
Morley, rising, " your whys and 
wherefores are getting too much for 
me. Don't you know your father 
helped me very materially in my 
early days, and now I want to do 
something to repay the debt." 

"And how can you tell that his 
son deserves your assistance?" 
Then springing to his feet he cried : 
14 1 cannot, dare not tell you why, 
but you shail not help me ; 1 am 
unworthy of it ! " .Then he sank 
down on a chair and buried his face 
in his hands and groaned in anguish, 
"If I had but waited !" he thought, 
" Had I but resisted temptation for 
one short hour all would have been 
well, and I should have been an 

Digged bydOC 




* \ 



u But you did not know whom it be- 
longed to ? ,T 

" I did. Your card was in the purse/' 

" I see/' said the curate^ almost with 
relief " Now you appreciate the true 
character of the man you offer to assist. 
Go, call in the police, and give me up to 

Morley "s face became overcast, and a look 
of deep sorrow settled upon it He sat in 
silence for a few moments, that seemed an 
age to the man cowering before him. Then 
he said, in an authoritative yet kind voice, 
a Campion, I am an old man, and your 
father's friend. I beseech of you to look 
on me as standing in his place, and tell nit 
nil about this sad affair. Do not seek either 
to condemn or excuse yourself, but tell me 
the tale simply, and as straightforwardly as 
though you were speaking of another." 

Thus abjured, the young man described 
in detail the doings of the day, in a voice 
often broken by his agitation. He did not 
seek to palliate his offence, but his narra- 
tive showed how circumstances had com- 
bined to urge him into dishonesty. 

The elder man listened to him atten- 
tively, but in silence, 
then as he concluded 
he took his hands in 
his t and said — 

"My poor friend, 
your tale has greatly 

moved me. Believe 

me, the money is of no 

importance to me, but 

I dare not ask you to 

look lightly on your 

sin. You used the 

hard term theft for 

your act, but I do not 

think it is that. I am 

not a lawyer, but I 

imagine the law has a 

milder term for such 

of f e n c e s. However 

that may be, now more 

than ever I claim my, 

right to help you. If 

you accept my assist- 
ance, a 

surely they appeal strongly to you to take 
the help I offer you/ 1 

"You heap coals of fire on my head," 
murmured the young man, in broken 

The two men sat talking far into the 
evening, and when Morley rose to leave he 
had gained his point. The curate had 
learnt the lesson, that oftentimes appears so 
hard to believe, that if God is willing to 
forgive, it is meet that man should not 
condemn himself too severely, and should 
accept human forgiveness if fully and freely 

The Rev. Oswald Campion is now a 
well-known preacher. He holds an im- 
portant living in the south of England, and 
his preaching has drawn a large congrega- 
tion around him. It is not his eloquence 
or rhetorical display that affects his hearers, 
for he speaks in simple language, as an 
erring man to fellow-men liable to fall into 
temptation, and the sincerity of his words 
none can dispute. His early error has 
impressed his soul, and he never tires of 
preaching the doctrines of mercy and 

useful career is 
you, and your 


error will serve as an 
incentive to future 
work. Then I ask you 
to think of your young 
wife and helpless child ; 


by Google 

Original from 

Monkey Society. 

By One of its Okxamexts. 

tOME days ago I 
tt ii- overheard two of 

those wretched 
descendants of 
our noble race — 
humans, I mean- 
talking outside my 
wires. They were 
telling euch other 
about some fellow-human 
of theirs — his name was 
Garner — who had, by years 
of slow ftudy, arrived at 
some sort of knowledge of 
three or four of the simpler 
words of our language — the ancient and 
eloquent tongue of the monkeys, Of 
course, this was only one more evidence 
of the human stupidity and conceit we 
chuckle ove:» Here were we monkeys 
for all these thousands of years perfectly 
understanding every syllable of human 
language that we heard, and never letting 
on once to the silly men that 1 m knew a 
word of what they were saying ; and all the 
while talking freely in our own tongtie with- 
out a chance of detection, and laughing at 
them. And now, forsooth, because one of 
them has discovered — or thinks he ha& — 
two or three of our words, they are all coek- 
a- whoop with conceit, think 
themselves the finest creatures 
on this earth, and blurt out 
their discovery right and left, 
instead of keeping quiet and 
learning more ! Is there a 
name for this kind of fool in 
any tongue what- 
ever? I don 1 ! think 
there is* So that 
after listening to the 
two creatures till my 
patience gave way, 
I reached out and 
grabbed the flower 
from one of their 
button - holes. It 
didn't taste particu- 
larly pleasant^ but I 
had the gratification 
of hearing its late 
owner tell his friend 
that it had cost him 

eighteenpence. Besides which there was 
thin wire about the stem which has since 
been very handy for pricking the pig-faced 
baboon with, when he wasn*t looking, I 
owe the pig-faced baboon one for himself, 

I have owed a grudge to most of them in 
this cage at one time or another, but nearly 
all the accounts are settled, I have lived 
here rather a less time than might be ima- 
gined in view of the influential position 
which I now occupy. A few months ago, 
when I first came, I was not a very popular 
monkey — no new monkey is. I had been 
considerably elated at the docks when I 
learned that the London Zoological Gardens 
was to be my destination, because there's 
a certain tone about such a destination as 
that — very different from going merely to 
a dealer or a private owner, or even to a 
circus, such as did others of my fellow pas- 
sengers. One even went to an organ- 
grinder, but he was a low monkey naturally. 
So I bossed it pretty considerably at the 
docks, I tell you, and patronised the others 
as offensively as I could. Still, I wasn't very 
comfortable when first they put me into 
this big cage. 

You see, the others didn't show me the 
respect which was my due. I am a green 
monkey, with a fine long Latin name; such 

by Google 


Original from 



a name as CercQpithecns caliitricfms ought 
to command respect anywhere, but here it 
only excited envy and malice. When I 
found myself among all these strangers I 
was prepared to expect a few courteous calls 
at intervals, and that a few cards would be 
left where 1 should find them, but immedi- 
ately upon my entrance the whole cageful 
called upon me at once, except the pig-faced 
baboon, who is always chained up. Their 
greetings were rather vulgar than otherwise. 

" Hullo* here's another green 'un, 7 ' said 
the Rhesus, intending this, I believe, to 
mean something beside my actual colour, 

H How are you, old chap ? " said another, 
pulling my tail away from under me, so 
that I fell forward on my hands, 

** Can you fight ? 1T asked somebody else, 
digging me in the ribs. 

Then a big Chacma came along, and say- 
ing, u <Jot any nuts ? " without giving me 
time to reply seized my jaw, threw me over, 
and forcing his dirty paw into my mouth, 
emptied my pouch of a little lunch I had 
brought with me. 

After this I had to submit to other 
insults, but of these I will say nothing 
My feelings were outraged and my tail was 
sore. My tail remained sore, indeed, for 
a few days, but 1 soothed my feelings soon 
after the crowd dispersed. I found a very 
small Capuchin, whom I had not before 
noticed among them, and — well, I let him 
have it. 

But I iound my proper level— socially a 
high one, of course, To tell you the truth 
I don't think much of society here ; com* 
pared with what I have always been used to 
it is dull. Anyone can see that at a glance. 
Look at any of our cages ; where U the life 
and motion proper in good monkey society ? 
Nowhere, The humans outside think we 
are active and lively, but we who know 
what these things are know that our state 
is one of simple stagnation. Very few of 
us can now manage to be in more than five 
places at once, and we are even getting 
slow at that. It is a growing habit of lazi- 
ness, acquired from the humans, who seem 
to have no business in hand but to stare, 

^ A?*f E OF slMPL * * TAGNATMM Ori g i n a I f no m 





rt J\ 

and never pull each others' tails, being quite 
ignorant of the usages of politeness* 

Some amusements, however, of a pleasing 
and elevating character, we have. One of 
the most fashionable is tormenting the pig- 
faced baboon. He is a low, unprincipled 
ruffian, and I owe him one for himself, as I 
think I observed before. He is bigger than 
most of us, but as he is chained up the 
amusement is safe as well as genteel — if you 
are careful about it. The usual course is, 
after a select party has been made up, first 
to fix exactly the utmost radius of reach 
which the chain , 

will allow the pig- 
faced baboon. 
Then a semicircle 
is formed just out- 
side the radius, 
and one of the 
party is told off to 
drop hot ashes out 
of a pipe upon the 
enemy's head — -in 
his eye if possible. 
A pipe can almost 
always be snatched 
when required 
fr om the breast 
pocket of some 
handy human, who 
puts it there in 
deference to the 
printed notice 
against smoking in 
our presence, but 
leaves the bowl 
sticking out for 
fear of catching fire, 
found their billet, 
cedure is obvious, 
hurled after the 


The hot ashes having 
the rest of the pro- 
The pipe having been 
anhes, every other avail- 
able missile is hurled after the pipe, and 
the pig-faced gentleman's bad language and 
frantic attempts at universal assault are re- 
ceived with cheerful sarcasm and pleasant 
grimace by the assembled company, who 
keep our friend well in exercise in the 
meantime by such pokes, pinches, and 
twitches of the tail from unforeseen direc- 
tions as may seem judicious. This pursuit, 
beside affording cheap and innocent amuse- 
ment and instruction for young and old of 
all classes, is healthy for the pig-faced 
baboon, preventing his liver from stagnating, 
and stimulating his digestion, 

I have mentioned that I owe this fellow 
one for himself. This is why. Soon after 
I came, and had seen the entertainment 

Digitized by OOOglC 

just described once or twice, I made up my 
mind to devote some time to a little private 
practice myself So, producing the neces- 
sary inflamed condition on the chained 
savage with the point of a pocket pen (which 
a human boy had offered me under the de- 
lusion that he could pull it back before I 
could snatch it), I awaited developments 
just beyond reach of his teeth and fingers. 
I enjoyed the game, and after a little re- 
freshing diversion, went so far as to spread 
my fingers out and plant my thumb against 
my nose. I had seen a human boy do this, 

and it struck me 
as rather a smart 
invention for such 
a creature. Old 
Piggy tugged and 
strained at his 
chain until he 
reached me with- 
in half an inch ; 
then he suddenly 
turned tail - fore- 
most and — well, 
I only remember 
two or three sum- 
mersaults and an 
awful pain in the 
stomach. The fact 
was, the old scoun- 
drel had let out 
with his hind legs, 
and so poached 
another foot of 
reach, just when 
I didn't expect it, 
It's an old trick 
of his, I've seen him do it since to another 
new monkey, and it looks very neat viewed 
in that way. Personally, I was very much 
upset, and, having caught the little brown 
capuchin again, I administered toko. Not- 
withstanding which, I still owe the pig- 
faced baboon one for himself, 

There is another to whom I owe a bite or 
two. He tries to monopolize one of our 
amusements himself. That is eating, He 
can't climb or run. He staggers about the 
place with both pouches hanging like 
immense whiskers from his cheeks, but 
solid and heavy. No matter what the 
humans outside may offer through the 
wires, he is always handy and grabs it, I 
flatter myself that very few of the others 
have a chance at biscuits or nuts if I am 
anywhere handy, but this unholy thief 
gets ahead even of me. I hate such greedi- 
ness. Original from 




One day an artless-looking boy came to 
the wires, munching. He offered a little 
biscuit to a small Mona* I do not approve 
of spoiling the digestions of young monkeys 
with biscuits^ so I hastened to get this tit- 
bit, Of course the greedy beast with the 
full pouches got there first, and popped it 
into his mouth before I couid touch it. 
There was mustard in that biscuit. That's 
what 1 call an interposition of Providence, 
Greediness is bad enough, but this chap 
aggravates ii by hypocrisy. Pleads the 
large family he has to support — as though 
he ever gave them any ! If I could see that 
artless-looking boy again I would suggest 
another biscuit with dynamite in it. That 
would empty his pouches ! 

Speaking of owing grudges, bites, and 
ones for themselves, reminds me that we in 
this cage owe a lot of these things in dif- 
ferent parts of the house which we can't 
pay. The vanity of some of those in the 
cages about the walls is sicken ingly irri- 
tating. The lemurs, for instance, are con- 
tinually showing off their long bushy tails, 
pretending coyly to hide their faces behind 
them — brazen baggages ! And they loop 
them round their necks, too, like a boa, be- 
cause they have seen the women humans do 
it, who come here to gape and giggle at 

their airs, that these lemurs prefer 
their great useless feat her -brushes 
to a decent and useful smooth, long 
tail, which you can hang on to 
things with, Then the Diana 
monkey at the end is positively 
improper. To begin with, the crea- 
ture's insupportable pride in the 
name of some goddess— whom even 
the humans won't own nowadays — 
is distinctly objectionable, especially 
as the name is quite inappropriate. 
Diana never had a white beard 
and whiskers ; I don't believe 
she had a tail. And if she 
behaved in the servile, cadg- 
ing manner of that monkey, 
trying to attract the attention 
of those human animals, and 
turning heels over head for 
nuts — well, she was no lady. 
The irritating thing is that 
the beast always gets the nuts. 
I can't stand seeing this. I 
always have to go and whack 
the little brown capuchin. 

There are others we all owe something 
to, but on the whole the score is fairly 
balanced. I am alluding to two or three 
big rascals wired off in separate cages near 
ours because of their ill manners and rough- 
ness. They reach through now and again 
and claw at us, but we collect a little party 
and extract almost as much fun from the 
business as in the case of the pig- faced 
baboon. And then the visitor-creatures 
rarely give them anything, being afraid of 
them ; and the mesh of their wires is so 
close that they can't get anything desirable, 
such as a bonnet ornament or a pair of 
spectacles, through them. So that they 
have their punishment. 

But the Barbary ape isn't so easily for- 
given. He is one of these segregated 
savages, in every respect as bad as the 
others, besides possessing one insufferable 
iniquity fortunately rare among us, but, 1 
fear, spreading. I mean a low, mean, un- 
worthy snobbishness and abasement which 
treats the humans as superior creatures, and 
affects a ludicrous familiarity and connec- 
tion with them. This fellow, glad enough 
to steal our nuts when no visitors are about, 
in their presence mounts his perch with his 
back to us, and turns up his nose. He gives 
himself away, however, if they offer him 
anything, by his ill-mannered grab — taking 
a biscuit as though it were a flower or an 

nothing. One might almost suppose, to see eyeglass. He get.-* into the habit through 


3 o8 


stealing from us, and can't overcome it. He 
always pretends to have an appointment 
with a human, more especially if visitors 

are about. He sits on his perch with as 
much pre-occupation as he can cram on his 
ugly face, and looks expectantly towards the 
door. Every time a door opens, he glances 
anxiously over his shoulder, after which he 
assumes an expression of annoyed impor- 
tance, as who 
would say, "This 
is all very fine, but 
it isn't business. 
When people 
make appoint- 
ments they should 
keep them.'* I 
have even caught 
him making be- 
lieve to look at an 
imaginary watch. 
If he would only 
attend to business 
instead of playing 
the fool, he might 
snatch a real one 
from somebody's 
hand, as I have 

The orang- 
outang is just as 
annoying, and 
would be mote so 

if we could see him He is away from 
here, over in the sloths* house where 
they usud to keep Sally, but we know 
all about him. Nice fuss they make over 
him, just because he's got no tail ; try- 
ing to make the deformity fashionable 
among us, I suppose, like the fox in the 
story. There he is, with a cage almost 
as big as this, and warmer, all to himself, 
Has a blanket to sleep in, and a special 
keeper as valet to call him in the morning, 
and bring his shaving water Can stay in 
his blanket all day if he likes, no one else 
to pull him up by the tail, not only having 
no tail to pull, but no neighbours to pull it 
And all this by way of reward for positive 
degeneration, physical, moral, and mental ; 
in fact, for his degraded approximation to a 
low animal type, the human, and for his 
cadging servility— going so far, I am told, 
as to shake hands with visitors, and with 
his own servant, the keeper. He is allowed, 
now and again, to come out of his cage 
and crawl slothfully about — not having 
the courage to bolt up the chimney — if there 
were one — or to bite the keeper's fingers. 
There he sits, bloated, coddled, waited on 
(they even give him tea with a cup and 
spoon !), while I, with becoming instincts, a 
Latin name twice as long as his, and a 
charming tail, I — well, there> I lose patience 
when I think of it. Where's that little 
brown capuchin ? 

I don't know how big the Aye-aye is, 
never having seen him, but if he is no bigger 









than the brown capuchin, I'd give some- 
thing to have hold of him for ten minutes. 
The lazy beggar sleeps the whole day long 
in the box at the top of hb cage, and they 
let him, If a few of us club together, and 
organise a little party for forty winks, it 
soon gets stopped. Someone falls in among 
us, or we get dragged apart by the tails, 
and quite right, too. No decent member 
of the community has the right or even 
the wish to deprive the others <. f the benefit 
of his society for longer than absolutely 
necessary to rest the frame and brighten 
the intellect. Personally, I believe the 
Aye-aye is sulking because of the eclipse of 
his name. Ch'rovtys Madagascar ten sis is 

a very fine name, anyone will admit, but 
when I came with Cercopithecus calliirichus 
I beat it by one letter. So he sulks. Then 
in the night, when we want quiet, he conies 
out and rackets about his cage. 

Altogether, however, especially in this 
cage, we are, although slow, a fairly select 
set- Our manners, at any rate, will com- 
pare favourably with those of any other set 
in the Louse, One rule of etiquette is never, 
in any circumstances, violated in this cage, 
except in the case of the pig-faced baboon. 
That is the rule that enjoins that should 
one stand still (an undesirable thing in 
itself) it must never be opposite the ticket 
bearing his name and birthplace. It is 



Original from 



humiliating enough to have these humans 
staring at and commenting on the details of 
our private life, without admitting them 
into one's family concerns. So that whether 
11 born in the menagerie/' " presented/' or 
merely sordidly u purchased/ 1 we can keep 
the matter to ourselves ; all but the unfor- 
tunate pig-faced baboon, who is chained 
near his label, and serve him right ♦ I owe 
him one, 

I have already alluded to the fact of our 
set patronising amusements of a refined 
character. There are, of course, others 
besides that mentioned. The Malbrouck, 
for instance, affects the sportsman, and 
carries a straw or a twig of some sort in his 
mouth. This gratifies him, and is not 
offensive to us. Scientific amusements are 
also much indulged in. We are all most 
enthusiastic, persevering, and painstaking 
entomologists, and our researches are often 
the subject of admiring comment. But the 
serious business of life largely occupies our 

I allude, of course, to the collection of 
bric-a-brac and other portable property. 
Of course, the chief difficulty is with the 
wires. Something really ought to be done 
about these wires ; they are a most serious 
obstruction to business. Personally I don't 
see what we want with wires at alJ ; they 
keep us select, and prevent some of the 
more low-minded from mixing with the 
humans — but, then, one's proper self-respect 
ought to do that, But, even admitting the 
desirableness of wires at all, the small-mesh 
wire now in use obviously must be abolished 
at once ; it positively prevents some classes 
of business altogether. Where it is a 
matter of difficulty and dexterity to get a 
fairly large pair of blue spectacles through, 
the acquisition of a bonnet or an old lady's 
wig becomes almost an impossibility until 
the articles have been torn in small pieces. 
Of course, it may be argued that is what 
would be done with them in any case, but 
the necessity of conducting the operation 
on the outer side of the wires often results 
in total loss. 

Propercircumspection is absolutely neces- 
sary, and any appearance of too great 
eagerness to do business is fatal. Much 
depends on the class of goods dealt in. A 
pipe sticking out of a breast pocket is a 
fairly easy transaction to begin with, al- 
though some recommend a single eye-glass 
with a cord. This latter certainly has the 
advantage that it effectually blinds the eye 
in which it is used, so that successful ap- 

proach on that side is tolerably certain ; the 
cord, also, is very convenient to snatch. 
But a pipe sticking from a pocket is more 
likely to be forgotten by its owner ; and 
beside, the possibility of the bowl being very 
hot teaches quickness of action. It is ad vis - 
able to assume an appearance of innocence 
and pre-occupation ; if possible, of melan- 
choly. The back should be turned to the 
human who is to be experimented upon, 
and the object, pipe or what not t viewed 
from the corner of the eye. It should 
always be remembered that the wires are 
irregular in mesh, and the widest available 
hole should be selected. These preliminaries 
having been carefully attended to, a sudden 
grab will successfully complete the business. 
Pocket handkerchiefs it is usually best to 
take direct from the pocket, although an 
expert practitioner will now and again 
achieve a fancy stroke by snatching one 
from the hand. In the matter of gloves it 
is safest to keep to those from the female 
creature ; they are thinner and (sometimes) 
smaller, and so easier to bring through the 


by LiOOglC 

Original from 



wires, and the woman is usually too 
frightened to snatch back. They are, how- 
ever, rarer than the male glove, being less 
frequently carried loose. 

Spectacles and eye-glasses, as I have 
hinted, afford fairly good sport, although 
the larger kinds are apt to get into compli- 
cations with the wires. In all cases of diffi- 
culty with the wires, whether with glasses 
or other goods, the only expedient is a 
mighty tug ; something is sure to come 
through, whatever smashes, and often you get 
the lot. I once got a pair of gold-rinimed 
glasses on the end of a tortoiseshell stick 
complete, from a most offensive old woman 
— only got through with a reckless tug + 
Bonnets, and feathers and flowers therefrom 
must, of course, be grabbed from above^ 
high up the wires. A good, comprehensive 
grab at a bonnet often results in a splendid 
haul. You get bonnet, feathers, flowers, 
fruit, little birds, bonnet pin, and — with 
any luck — a lot of false hair, all at once. 
Indeed, in the matter of quantity, nothing, 
in my opinion, beats a bonnet — you fetch 
away all kinds of things with it, and you 
never know how much you 1 II get. Always 
remember, how- 
ever, after each 
transaction, no 
matter in what 
goods, immedi- 
ately to seek tht 
very top of the 
cage. It is the 

safest place. I am the only monkey in this 
cage who ever got a man's wig ; he was 
looking for something in his hat. It was a 
most fraudulent wig, showing a genuine 
bald spot in the most artful fashion ; I 




wore it — or as much 
of it as I got through 
— round my neck for 
several days, and the 
people said I was a 
new species. 

There is one ob- 
ject of my ambition, 
however, still unat- 
tained— Ihave never 
snatched a set of 
false teeth. I mean 
to do it some day, 
though, and am 
watching my oppor- 
tunity day by day ; and when I have them 
I will lay them at the feet of — ah ! there 
is my confession. She doesn't want false 
teeth, having a very capital set of her own ; 
but, as a token of undying affection, what 
a glorious thing would be a set of false 
teeth — in gold — to offer the adorable crea- 
ture in the cage a little further along ! 
May the raptures of a devoted lover be 
pardoned if once more I contemplate that 
sad and lovely face, that angelic form, 

*7HE SAFfcfcT FLACE*" 



those adorable 
whiskers ? There 
she sits, pensive 
and sweetly mel- 
ancholy — dream- 
ing, doubtless, of 
her sylvan home 
far away, where 
the lion roareth 
and the whang- 
doodle mourneth* 
For her I hoard 
my every day's 
takings {although 
those dishonest 
keepers always 
take. them away) ; 

for her I snatch feathers from bonnets, 
flowers from buttonholes, pipes from pock- 
ets ; for her do I faithfully watch, day by 
day, after a set of false 
teeth. But still, my 
fluttering heart, He still ! 
How can I hope ? How 
can I even approach 
her to throw myself be- 
fore her, to offer her my 
all, to take one pull at 
that bewitching tail ? 
Alas ! my lot is despair. 
There is a gibbon in a 
nearer cage than this, 
who is making eyes at 



this moment, Confound him ! May 
Gibbon quickly Decline and Fall ! 
I am racked with hate and jealousy ! 
I will even go and pitch 
into the little brown 
capuchin. And now 1 
bethink me, there is a 
bonnet-pin I have to- 
day acquired with the 
debris of a hat and false 
front. I will get be- 
hind him and stick that 
bonnet-pin far into the 
pig-faced baboon. I 
owe him one for him- 

by Google 


Original from ' 



! Sisters j| 



A Stor\ 


From the 


X '5 

HERE were once a king and 
queen who had three beautiful 
daughters, and the organism 
of these three princesses was 
remarkable for their each 
being furnished with a heart 
of glass, 

u Children ! children ! " said the queen, 
when the princesses were still quite small, 
11 whatever you do, take care of your hearts, 
for they are of fragile make.'' 

The children therefore tried to be very 
careful, and for some time all went well, 
and the hearts remained unbroken, 

But one day the eldest girl, who was 
leaning out of the window, looking down 
into the garden below, noticed a little bee 
which was buzzing busily round some 
flosvers. The little creature interested her" 
so much that she leaned out farther, so ass 
to be able to watch it more closely, when 
suddenly — sma^h ! — there came a sound of 
broken glass! The young princess had 
crushed her heart against tne window-sill t 
and so, alas ! the poor girl expired. 

After this exceedingly sad accident the 

Digitized by G* 

other two sisters were still more care- 
ful about their hearts* 

Some time after the death of the 
princess, the second daughter very 
thoughtlessly drank a cup of rather 
hot coffee, and when she had finished 
it something was suddenly heard to 
crack, and she fell back, fainting, into an 
armchair The sound on this occasion, how- 
ever was not so loud as on the first. The 
queen rushed to where the princess lay, and, 
on examining her, found, to her great 
delight, that the heart was only slightly 
cracked, and not broken, and that her 
daughter was still alive. 






" What are we to do with our daughter ? " 
said the king to the queen, u for although 
the injury to her heart amounts only to a 
crack at present, this may increase to a 
decided fracture/' 

But the princess begged them not to 
worry themselves about her, 

"For you know," said she, "it's the 
cracked pitcher that goes oftenest to the well," 

Meanwhile the youngest daughter grew 


and became a most beautiful as well as 

a most remarkably clever girl ; and many 
a handsome and wealthy prince irom dis- 
tant lands came to ask for her fair hand. 
But the old king did not forget the b'tter 
experiences he had had with his two elder 

14 1 have only one daughter left with a 
whole heart t and hers is also of glass. 
Therefore, if I give her in marriage to any- 
one, it must be to a king who is at the 
same time a glazier, and who understands 
how to treat an article so fragile ; so that, 
in case of accidents, he would know how to 
rivet the cracks," 

Unfortunately, none of the young princes 
and nobles who had come as suitors to the 
princess knew anything at all about how to 
rivet broken gfass, and were none of them 
glaziers by profession, so they had to return 
to their native lands miserable and dis- 
appointed lovers. 

Among the royal pages in the palace was 
one whose term as page was shortly to ex- 
pire. He had still to carry the train of the 
youngest princess three times, and after 
that he was to be promoted to a full-blown 

On the first occasion when the page had 
to carry the young princess's train, she 
glanced at him, and as their eyes met she 
blushed. When next he carried her train, 
she waved her hand to him at parting, and 
the unfortunate youth was unable to sleep 
the whole of that night in consequence ! 

The tliird time when the young fellow 
bore the princess's train, the king came 
forward to meet them half way, and dis- 
missed the page, saying— 

11 You have done your duty now, young 
man, and you may go, I thank you, and 
have also to congratulate you on your 

With that the king turned and walked 
away, while the princess bent forward to 
where the page stood, and said — 

" Yen carried my train so beautifully — 
better than anyone else ! Oh, why are you 
not a king and a glazier ? " 

The unfortunate young man felt so con- 
fused, as w f ell as delighted, that he was 
unable to utter a word in reply* He 


managed, however, to make a very graceful 
and polite bow. When the princess had 
left him, he ran as hard as ever he could to 
the nearest glazier, and asked him whether 
he was in need of a foreman. 

" Yes," replied the other ; " but you will 
have to work four years with me before 
you can be foreman. At first you must 
be a sort of errand boy, and go to the 
baker's to fetch me my bread ; and also 
look after my children, wash them, and 
dress them. Secondly, you must learn how 
to putty the cracks ; thirdly, you will have 
to learn how to cut the glass and fix in 
windows ; and after that, in the fourth 
year, you shall be my foreman." 

The page thought" this would take rather 
too loug, so he asked the glazier whether 
he could not possibly begin with cutting 
the glass and fixing windows, and leave out 
the rest, so as to gtrt on quicker. But the 
glazier shook his head, and assured the 
young fellow that every good glazier had 
to begin his career from the beginning, or 




he could never be clever. So the page was 
obliged to reconcile himself to his fate. 
The whole of the first year the unfortu- 

nate young 
courtier spent 
his time in run- 
ning to th e 
baker's for 
bread for his 
master ; and in 
washing and 
dressing the 
children* In 
the second year 
he did nothing 
but stop cracks 
with putty. In 
the third year 
he learnt how 
to cut glass and 
fix windows, and at last, 
at the commencement 
of the fourth year, he 
was made foreman. 

After having been 
foreman for a whole 




year, he took leave ot 
his master ; and, dress- 
ing himself up once 
more in his court dress, 
he walked along the 
roads in deep thought, wondering how 
he could possibly become a king. As 
he was walking on a man came to- 
wards him, and T seeing that the young 
courtier was in deep thought, he 
stopped and asked him whether he 
had lost anything. 

u Well, I don't know that I have 
exactly lost anything ■ but at any rate 
I cannot find what I want.'* 
4i And what is that? 1 * 
11 A kingdom, I am wondering how 
on earth I can become a king/ 1 

M Well T if you had been a glazier, " 
said the stranger y il l might have helped 

"That is just exactly what I am / " 
-exclaimed the other. " I have only lately 
been foreman to a glazier ! " 

"Then you have nothing to fear. You 
are no doubt aware that our king decided 
some time ago to give his youngest 
daughter in marriage to a glazier who 
was to be at the same time a king or at 
any rate a prince ; but, as they have bi^n 
unsuccessful in finding such a person, the 
king has been reluctantly obliged to modify 
his demands by adding two other condi- 

tions + The bridegroom must in any case be 
a glazier, that of course goes without saying." 

" But what are the two conditions ? " asked 
the young courtier, excitedly. 

41 The first condition is that he should 
please the p aucess ; and the second is that he 
should be a nobleman by birth. There have 
already been a great number of glaziers 
applying at the palace, but not one of them 
took thu princess's fancy, and all of them 
had coarse, rough hands like those of the 
commonest glazier." 

When our young courtier heard these 
words, he jumped three times about a yard 
above the road for very joy, and then, 
turning round, ran helter-skelter back to 
the town, and presented himself at the 
palace in less than no time I 

The king at once ordered the princess 
to be called, and when she arrived, he asked 

her whether 
this young 
glazier took 
her fancy. 

The prin 
cess glanced 
at the young 
man, and, 
recognising him at once, she blushed, and 
said: "Oh, yes," 

The king ordered the young fellow to 


'he jumped three times for joy.' 



take off his gloves and show his hands, so 
that they should know whether he was of 
noble birth. However, the princess said 
that it was quite unnecessary for the young 
man to do anything of the kind, as she felt 
perfectly certain that there was no doubt 
whatever about his being of noble birth, 
and that his hands, she was sure, would be 
as white as those of a prince. 

So they were married ; and t as the young 
princess's husband was a glazier by profes- 
sion, as well as a nobleman by birth , he 
understood how to treat a heart so delicate 
and fragile as hers ; therefore, she lived 
blissfully to the end of her days without any 
accident happening. 

The king's second daughter, with the 
cracked heart, had the pleasure of being an 
aunt, and a very excellent aunt she made, 
too ! She taught the little princess to read 

and write, and make dresses for her dolls ; 
she also took a great interest in the little 
princeV lessons, and when he knew them 
well and had good marks, like a good little 
boy, then she would praise him and make 
him all sorts of pretty presents, and he 
would leave her looking red and rosy, and 
Hushed with delight. When, on the con- 
trary, he did not know his lessons, and his 
marks were anything but good, then she 
would be very different, and he would leave 
her looking also very red and rosy, very 
flushed, but not with delight. 

This princess lived to a very old age,, 
notwithstanding that her heart was cracked, 
and if anyone marvelled at her living so 
lung, she would answer them, as she had 
done her parents once before : 

u Remember, 'It's the cracked pitcher 
that goes oftenest to the well/ ' 

by Google 

Original from 

The Queer Side of Things. 







\&xvsSf ° f Tte*S°* 4^1ENCE. 


[OME time ago, amid the 

monotonous ether of space t 

long before the existence of 

planets and all that, two spirits 

were strolling along in company. 

In aspect the two companions 
differed in the most pronounced 
way. On the brow of the one, who 
might have passed for the elder, 
appeared the cold and passionless 
calculation of science ; the eye was 
deeply reflective^ but unimpassion- 
ed ; the demeanour was grave and 
deliberate. We may as well speak 
of this spirit henceforth as William. 
The younger T whom we will call 
James, was of a very different 
stamp, for in him the quick and 
well opened eye, the mobile brow 
and mouth, and the eager voice, 
denoted enthusiasm and enterprise. 

As we have remarked, the scene was 
monotonous j it is easily described : stretch- 
ing away and away for ever in every direc- 
tion spread space and utter and intense 

What wonder, then, that, surrounded by 
so dull and uninteresting a monotony, living 
through an indefinite period enlivened by 
no divisions of time, the soul of Jarfles 
should have cast about within itself for 
some recreative topic, some object on which 
to expend its imaginative energies. In 
truth James was a dreamer — a wild and 
fantastic dreamer, if you will. Sitting 
alone, perhaps, for an uninterrupted period 

of many cycles, he would follow with ever 
more hurrying mental footsteps the bewil- 
dering paths of inventive speculation. In 
the midst of that dull void he would con- 
ceive the existence of many things ; he 
would fill space with entities, psychical and 
even material. 

For many aeons the fear of ridicule had 
deterred him from breathing a word ot 
all these phantasies to his more severe and 
calculating companion ; for to William's 
cold and precise reason, that which existed 
was all that ever could exist ; and stern t 
philosophic argument had convinced him 
that space and darkness were everything 
which could ever possibly be designed or 

This was no grudging conservatism, nor 

prejudice against new things. No, he had 

worked the matter out in the light of pure 

, reason and scientific argument^ and he 


* 4 William," said James, at length, im- 
pelled by an impulse which he could no 
longer restrain, yet with the detectable 
nervousness and hesitation of one who 
fears reproach or ridicule— 1 * William, has it 
never crossed your mind that the surround- 
ings of our existence are a little — that is, a 
trifle — monotonous and samey ? " 

He stopped suddenly, abashed, and 
fidgeted uncomfortably from foot to foot, 
as the keen eye of the other, wide with 
astonishment, was fixed upon him, 

44 1 fear I do not catch your meaning, 
James," at length replied the wiser spirit. 


3 i3 


James flushed uncomfortably ; but he 
had committed himself too far for further 
hesitation. il Might there not exist/ 7 he 
went on, though still nervously, u some- 
thing beyond mere space and darkness ? Tt 

11 Something beyond ? " repeated the sage, 
i( certainly not : that is impossible, Space 
and darkness, as Science and Reason conclu- 
sively prove, are the only conditions which 
can ever possibly exist. What phantasy is 
this for which you hanker? Give details." 

" Well — why could there not be worlds 
about ? " asked James, bold in very desper- 

11 Foolish boy ! " replied the philosopher. 
u Do you think I have not often thought 
this thing out for myself? Were I to 
adduce the thousand and one scientific 
reasons which prove the impossibility of the 
existence of worlds, you could not follow me. 
Tell me, whence would you fetch your 
materials with which to manufacture these 
worlds ? 7y 

James was silent, "How many worlds 
would you like to have T in your foolish- 
ness ? " asked the 

"Well," said 
James, humbly, " I 
was thinking of two 
— one of them all on 
fire, to give light to 
the other ; and the 
other for working 
purposes/ 1 

11 Ah, just so," said 
William, withering- 
ly. "Of course, it 
has never occurred 
to you that the two 
would dash together 
by mutual attraction 
and become one ? 
How about that ? " 

"Well — I would 
have a whole lot of 
them, to keep one another in position " 

"Ah," said William, "and they would 
all dash together at a common centre, how- 
ever many you had." 

" Hum— that is a bother,' 7 said James, 
disappointedly; " because. I was going to 
put all manner of things on my worlds," 

" As what ? " asked the philosopher, with 
a crushing grin. 

"Well, I thought of human beings 
among other things — when I say human 
beings I mean something alive and able to 
move about when supported on anything 

by L^OOgle 

solid, such as a world ; and endowed with 
a certain amount of reason, and able to 
express his thoughts, and subject to emo- 
tions and proclivities — mostly evil, of 

course, and " 

" Well now, look here," said William 
magnanimously, " let us suppose that you 
have got over all the insurmountable 
obstacles in the n f ay of keeping your human 
beings alive j let us wildly take it for 
granted that they have not been crushed 
between your worlds, nor by the attraction 
of their own — that they can move upon its 
surface {which of course any attraction 
sufficient to keep them from tumbling off 
would inevitably prevent their doing) — that 
they are not shrivelled up by the heat 
generated by the friction of your large mass 
of material pressing towards its centre, not 
frozen, nor otherwise instantly destroyed 
(which they assuredly would be) ; let us 
suppose this initial absurdity, and go ahead. 
What do you intend your human beings to 
do ? By the way, I pass over the sublime 
humour of anything having to be supported 

on something solid as 
a necessary condition 
of moving about ! 
That is a peculiar 
sort of motion — but 
let that pass. Well?" 
The sage took up 
an easy attitude with 
an air of resigna- 
tion, and prepared to 

" Before you be- 
gin," said he paren- 
thetically, h " I can 
tell you in a word 
what your beings 
would do first — and 
last. They would 
fight and extermin- 
ate each other, and 
there would be an 
end of them." 

41 No," said James, " I believe they would 
increase in numbers and gradually become 

less savage, and begin to invent things- " 

14 Oh, they are to invent things as well as 
you. And I suppose the things they in- 
vented would invent other things, and so 
on? 15 

" No, they would invent inanimate objects, 
such as weapons*" 

" Oh yes," said William hastily, " I have 
no doubt they would invent weapons ; that 
would help them to exterminate each other." 
Original fronn 






44 It is the same as human, 
that is, kind, sympathising, 
benevolent, mild, compas- 
sionate, tender, merciful. 1 ' 

"Oh, indeed I fl said 
William ; a pray go on," 

u By degrees their rela- 
tions one with another 
would become more polished 
and pleasant ; a stranger 
would not necessarily be a 

foe " 

11 Hold hard a moment," 
said the sage ; "how many 
of these human beings do 
you propose to have in your 
world ? — some dozens ? " 
u Many millions/ 1 
" Alillions / ! But are 
they all to be precisely alike, 
so that one could not be distinguished 
from another ? If that were so, every- 
thing would be utter confusion/' 
M Of course. That would never do. Each 
must necessarily have his individuality." 

il That would be somewhat difficult when 
it came to millions" said V-'illianu u Of 
course, while you confined yourself to 
dozens, one might be spherical, another 
cubical, a third triangular, a fourth oval, 
and r 5 o forth — " 

" Bless your soul ! n said James, " My 
human beings are not to be in the form of 
geometrical figures ! Each would have a 
body, two legs, two amis, a head, and so 

11 Oh ! I see ; and you will differentiate 
between them by varying the positions of 
these parts — now placing the head at the 
end of one leg, now of the other ; now put- 



"Yes, of course 
they would invent 
weapons first ; but, 
as they grew less 

savage w 

" Hum — inventing weapons is a peculiar 
mode of making oneself less savage ! " 

u Why, the weapons, as they became 
more deadly and efficient, would get so 
capable of exterminating them that they 
would prove the actual means of civilising 

and rendering them more humane " 

41 What does ( humane T mean ? • ' 



va&yi:*; y:«e iwsitioss or thb FASTS. 




ting the legs and arms at the four corners, 
and the head in the middle — and so forth." 

H Not in the least. The positions of all 
parts would be relatively identical in all 

u Now t James y when you talk something 
distantly approaching reason, I can bear 
with you (by an effort) ; but if you are 
going to talk such childish nonsense as this, 
I must leave you* You speak of millions of 
individuals whose general conformation is 
practically unvaried ; and yet each one is 
to be individually recognisable 
—how ? » 

** Why — why, by minor pecu- 
liarities, I suppose - ■ . " 

" ' Minor peculiarities ! r Then 
one of your beings would, on 
meeting another, have to insti- 
tute a thorough and minute ex- 
amination of him from end to 
end in order to discover one of 
these ' minor peculiarities ' by 
which to identify him. He 
would hardly be able to remem* 
ber the minor peculiarities of all 
the other millions of individuals, 
and would therefore have to 
carry a document whereon each 
of them w T as set down. Very 
practical ! Now let us work it 
out : This scroll of his has to 

is going to carry this scroll, which would 
certainly weigh some hundred -weights ? 
Then, granting he could carry it, he is to 
sit down and wade through ten millions of 
signs in order to identify his friend or 
enemy. This would occupy a considerable 
time— let us say, moderately, five years/' 

The younger spirit looked crestfallen. 

" I must admit you rather have me 
there ! w he said ruefully, M I see there 
would be a difficulty about recognition. 
Perhaps there might be lists of identifying 

contain, let 
signs T with 
tached* Perhaps you will tell me how he 

us say, 
the name 

ten million different 
of the owner at- 



peculiarities set up at various points of the 
world, so that everybody could meet there, 
and " 

" Pooh ! " said William, " get on to some 
other absurdity. I can't see what, save fight- 
ing, you would give your creatures to do." 

"Oh, they would have to gain their 
living — to provide for themselves. " 


(i Yes, they could only keep alive by 
consuming periodically something which 
would nourish their frames.' 1 

u Whence would they obtain it ? n 

u From the material of which their 
world was made." 

" Oh, I see — your beings would gradu- 
ally increase in numbers, and at the same 
time eat away the world they were cling- 
ing to, until, in course of time, there would 
be no world left to cling to at all ? But I 
suppose you would lengthen the thing out 
— they would only eat at intervals of an 
aeon or so ? M 

" No ; I was thinking of several times a 

The sage burst into a loud laugh, which 



u What ? Creatures whose frames would 
begin to dwindle away unless they ate every 
few hours f Why, they would 
be able to think of nothing 
else ! Eating would take up 
all their time ! They would 
barely have leisure to kill 
one another between meals ! " 

11 No, there's something in 
that," said poor James. 

11 Besides, you have invented 
beings possessing something 
like intelligence. Have you 
provided that intelligence sim- 
ply to be used in eating ? " 

44 Oh no; but - ,J 

'Well, they certainly 
chance of 

very nice 


wouldn't have 
using it for any 
pose. Are they 

11 Oh no — only 

a As soon as they had used 
their intelligence in eating, 
what is the next thing they 
would turn it to ? " 

other pur- 
to live to 

to eat to 

" To — er — well, I 


to finding something for the 
next meal," said poor James, 

u Precisely," said William. 
"You do not propose a very 
high standard of achievement 
for your beings ! I presume 
all these inventions you talk 
about would have eating as 
their ultimate object ? The 
best thing for them would be 
to invent something to ren- 
der the necessity of eating less 
frequent ; something which 
would do all the eating for 
them, and set them at liberty 
to attempt something else. 
What inventions were you 
thinking of?" 

li Well — the electric tele- 
graph, for instance ; an appa- 
ratus to enable persons to talk 
to others Jong distances off/' 

" But j : our people wouldn't 
have time to talk to those at ^J 
hand even— they would have 
to eat. By the way, what do 
you do with your beings when 
they die? " 

41 They become part of the 

ww,d,heyI1 ^ cn %GeK3gte 



the others eat them? Ah, 
I really begin to like your 
human beings. Their tastes 
are so pleasant ! Go on." 

u Well, as they progressed in 
civilisation they would make 

"What for?" 

"To govern themselves by. ,T 

11 Govern themselves by ! 
But they could govern them- 
selves without laws. What 
would they want laws for ? " 

"To prevent their doing 
wrong/' said James. 

"But if they were inclined 
to do right they would not 
need laws to keep them from 
doing wrong ; while, if they 
were inclined to do wrong, 
they would not make such 
laws. Besides, the necessity 
of such laws seems to imply 
that the majority of your 
humans would have a leaning 
towards evil-doing? " 

u Yes, that would be so," 

" Then who would make, 
and enforce, those laws ? " 

"The better inclined 
minority, 11 

4i What horrid nonsense ! 
The majority would not let 
them I No ; obviously the 
majority would make the 
laws ; and the majority being 
inclined towards evil, the laws 
would be for the propagation 
of evil-doing. If the majority 
of your humans were inclined 
to swindle their neighbours, 
the laws would be made in 
favour of swindlers/' 

Poor James hastily ran 
over a few of the laws he had 
conceived, and expressed a 
wish to change the conver- 

" Look here, my poor boy, 11 
said William, rising, H don't 
muddle your head with any 
more of these preposterous 
plans. Science and Reason 
utterly confute the possibility 
of such a world as you de- 
scribe. To begin with, the 
world itself ctuld not exist 
for five minutes ; then your 
.people couldn't live in it if 




it did ; if they could live, they couldn't 
move ; if they could live and move, they 
would not have a moment for anything 
but eating ; they could not recognise or 
identify each other ; and so on, and so on. 
The whole thing is a farrago of hopeless 
and impossible bosh, and couldn't hold 
water for a single instant. Science and 
Reason prove it ! " 

As the spirits ceased, we turned to our 
newspaper and read the following words \ — 

u The North American Review lately 
described the recent successful experiments 
carried on in the Far West of America to 
produce rain by explosives. The result was 
complete success. , . . This article w-as 
followed by a paper by Professor New- 
combe, in which he demonstrates con- 
clusively that it is absolutely impossible to 
make rain in any such way." 

J, F. Sullivan, 


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3 3 3 



VERYONE has heard of the 
magnificent dogs of the St. 
Bernard monastery. The 
manner in which they are 
trained to search for snow- 
bound travellers has gained 
for them and the good monks, their 
teachers, such a world-wide fame that a 
few words of reference are all that are 
necessary to introduce the most interesting 
photograph from real life which we are 
here able to present. Whenever a snow- 
storm breaks upon the Alps the monks 
send forth their dogs in search of travellers, 
each animal carrying a flask of spirits 
suspended from its neck. Guided by the 
wondrous instinct with which they are 
endowed, and which has been intensified by 
assiduous and skilful training, they seldom 
fail in discovering any unfortunate wayfarer 
who has been overtaken by the tempest, or 
who has sunk upon the icy ground, worn 
out by fatigue and hardship and succumbed 
to the death -sleep which results from intense 
cold. When the dog makes such a dis- 
covery it raises its voice in a deep and 
powerful bay, at the same time scraping 
away the snow from the traveller's body, 

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even though it be buried under a deep 
snowdrift, and crouching with its body 
pressed against the sufferer's breast in order 
to bring back the natural heat and life. 
The monks, on hearing the dog's warning 
cry, immediately set off with aid. 

The above picture represents a scene of 
this kind, exactly as it occurred j it is so 
vivid that the spectator might almost fancy 
himself present at the discovery of the 
body, The sufferer in this case was an 
Italian peasant who had lost his way among 
the mountains, and had sunk down without 
hope. The monks, on hurrying out at the 
summons of the dog's voice, found the poor 
fellow lying in the snow, which the faithful 
animal had partly scratched away. As the 
sufferer was apparently quite dead, a photo- 
graph of the body in his deadly sleep, with 
the dog still crouching on the breast, was 
taken on the spot by one of the monks t 
who had his camera with him. The feet, 
or, rather, the bottom of the serge gown of 
another monk may be seen in the back- 
ground. The sufferer was immediately 
carried to the monastery > and, it is satis- 
factory to learn, was by assiduous care and 
skill at length restored to life. 





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The inhabitants of Japan have a pronounced predi- 
lection for the grotesque. The most popular amuse- 
ments are theatrical representations, the great 
achievements of the Ll artists '* consisting in extra- 
ordinary contortions of the limbs and faces. Not only 
single li artists/ 1 but whole groups of them practise 
these contortions, and the one who can imitate best 
the grotesquely carved images is sure of a clamorous 
reception from the audience. 

Amongst these u mimics " Morimoto has achieved 
the highest reputation. This man produces the most 
astounding effects with bis facial contortions, as may 

be seen from the pictures given. He can raise his 
lips and chin above the tip of the nose T and bury his 
mouth in the folds of his cheeks. The pictures pre- 
sent him, first, in his natural appearance, then as the 
"god of riches," pleased, and disappointed, and as 
the **god Daruma." 

The i( god of riches t! he presents in two characters. 
He carries a sack of gold on his back, stooping under 
its heavy weight, but still seeking for more treasures* 
He taps the soil with a hammer, and, if the sounds in- 
dicate that he has found gold, a bright expression of 

pleasure beams on his countenance, and a satisfaction 
of the deepest intensity sparkles in his eyes, 

The third picture shows Morimoto again as the 
Li god of riches," but this time he is disappointed ; he 
has found no treasure. Shadows of deep sorrow over- 
cast his face ; the chin is raised over the tip of the 
nose, and suppressed malice lurks in ihe eyes. 

But the height of Mori mote's art is reached in the 
fourth picture, The god Daruma lived in the sixth 
century. He is of Indian origin, came to Japan to 
preach Buddhism, he found many adherents, and is to 
this day the most popular household god M His old 






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days he passed in the mountains as a recluse, 
generally represented without feet, having 
them away " in his long and weary wanderings* 

If Morimoto represents this mournful idol, he squats 
on the floor, covered from head to foot in a red cloth. 
The chin is raised over the tip of the nose, as in the 
third picture ; but the mouth is buried in the severe 
folds of the cheeks, thus indicating the austere 
abstemiousness of the recluse, whilst his eyes stare 
into blank vacancy. Morimoto is a master of his art, 
who has no equal, even in Japan. 










CRIED cabby; ' */'££ go!" 





"brake!" exclaimed caduy, as he vjrweu thr ruins 








policeman : "what are you doing there?" 
tramp; "getting my haik cropped, gratis!' 



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(""rw^nL'' Original from 




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Bv Kaymunh Allen. 

STORM of wind and rain 
had come on suddenly, and, as 
there were no cabs to be got 
near at hand, there was no- 
thing for it but to set out on 
foot. I was going to dine 
with old Colonel Bradshaw, whose acquaint- 
ance I had lately made at the local chess 
club, and I was due at half-past seven t so I 
pulled my coat collar up to my ears and 
started off through the muddy streets. 
Several times in the course of my exceed- 
ingly unpleasant walk the foulness of the 
weather had given rise to a wish on my 
part that I had invented some excuse for 
staying by my own comfortable fireside, 
Once arrived, however, the cheery welcome 
nf the old soldier quickly dispersed all 
regrets for my own heart h, and restored me 
to the good-humour necessary for the proper 
appreciation of a good dinner. 

Colonel Bradshaw had served in India 
during the time of the Mutiny, hud received 
a severe wound in the left leg, which still 
caused him to limp, and had led to his 
comparatively early retirement from the 
service. He had returned to England on 
his retirement, and had lately leased a snug 
little house in our town, which he 
apparently intended to occupy for the rest 

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of his days in the quiet enjoyment of peace- 
ful obscurity, I had made his acquaintance, 
as I have said, at the chess club, where, I 
believe, he used to spend most of his 
evenings, and where he had earned the 
reputation of a decidedly strong player, I 
had not as yet encountered him over the 

In his note of invitation, the Colonel had 
asked me to bring my men with me, as he 
had left his own at the club-rooms, on the 
occasion of a match for which they had been 
called into requisition, and it was accordingly 
my set of chessmen which we now arranged 
in the customary order of battle. To my 
annoyance, however, I found that one of 
my black knights was missing, and 1 cast my 
eyes round the room in search of some article 
on which we might for the occasion confer 
the spurs of knighthood, On the Colonel's 
writing-table j acting as a paperweight, I 
saw the very object we were in want of— a 
black knight. Not of the orthodox Staun- 
ton pattern, it is true, nor indeed were its 
grotesquely protruding eyes and maliciously 
grinning mouth characteristic of any pattern 
with which I was familiar ; but still it was 
undeniably a black chess knight, and would 
serve our turn admirably. My host hesi- 
tated, and even seeme'd the least trifle 
Origin aTfro in 


33 2 


annoyed when I suggested the expediency 
of pressing it into the service. The beast 
certainly looked incongruous among my 
Stauntons, but something in his human 
eyes and lifelike expression of malicious 
humour caught my fancy, and I asked to 
be allowed to play with the black men. 
The Colonel acquiesced, but declined the 
privilege of first move, which usually goes 
with the white. We accordingly drew for 
the move, and I won it. 

Led partly by my fancy for the black 
knight, and partly ** to take my opponent 
out of the books/' I began the game by 
making the paperweight first take the 
field. As I did so t I fancied my host 
gave a little start, and, as he certainly 
appeared to be annoyed at my irregular 
opening, I was sorry that 1 had begun 
by a move which I supposed he ob- 
jected to on the ground that it generally 
leads to a close game. He said nothing, 
however, and the game was continued for 
some time by very ordinary moves on both 
sidesj and presently I began to be absorbed 
in the study of the position and in the 
endeavour to gauge the strength of my 
opponent. For a time he seemed to play 
a decidedly good game, and, in spite of con- 
tinuous concentration on my part, to main- 
tain some superiority of position. Presently, 
however t he embarked on a series of moves 
which appeared to give me a decisive 

advantage and to have no more rational 
object than the capture of my swarthy 
champion at a ruinous sacrifice of his own 
pieces. This eccentric proceeding puzzled 
me, and, added to his previous hesitation 
about using the substitute, excited my 
curiosity. So, relinquishing the object of 
winning the game in the ordinary way, I 
devoted all my skill to the defence of my 
king's knight, as though it were a piece 
cotffc'e with which I was pledged to give 
checkmate. Rooks were sacrificed for 
bishops, and bishops exchanged for inoffen- 
sive pawns, while the kings stood disre- 
garded on their knights' squares, and the 
fight raged hotly round the black knight, 
who seemed to bear a charmed life and sprang 
nimbly about the board, always evading 
my opponent's headlong attempts at his 
capture. At last, in desperation, he offered 
the bribe of the white queen, but I 
obstinately refused to part at any price 
with my dusky cavalier, and a few moves 
later brought the game to a successful end 
with a smothered mate, the very bone of 
contention inflict ng the deathblow. 

The Colonel leaned back in his armchair 
and for some minutes continued silently to 
blow out thick clouds of smoke. After a 
pause, during which his brow was com- 
pressed into a frown, as though by the con- 
templation of some bewildering enigma to 
which he could not find the clue^ he broke 


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silence with the remark, that " there were 
more things in heaven and earth — " and 
then again relapsed into silence in apparent 
forgetfulness of my presence. As he made 
no further remark for some time, I rose 
from my seat, and, muttering something 
about its being late, prepared to take my 
leave. 4i Wait a moment ; look here,'' said 
the Colonel, rising to stop me with the air 
of a man who has formed a sudden deter- 
mination, and pointing to the board, "I 
daresay you wonder what on earth I was 
driving at in that game ? " 

44 Well, you appeared to me to be driv- 
ing mainly at that outlandish black knight 
instead of at my king," I replied. 

44 Exactly, and perhaps I ought to apolo- 
gise for having spoilt the game by giving 
way to an absurd fancy ; but if you will sit 
down again and refill your pipe, I will tell 
you a curious experience which I had many 
years ago in India, and which you will 
perhaps admit as an excuse for my eccentric 
play to-night." 

44 Nothing I should like better," I replied; 
44 for I confess you have considerably roused 
my curiosity." 

44 Well then, I think I can partly satisfy 
it ;" and my host threw a fresh log on to 
the fire, stretched himself in the chair, and 

44 1 don't know whether you take any 
interest in such subjects as hypnotism, 
thought-reading, and so on ; but, if you 
do, you may perhaps be able to form some 
scientific theory to explain my story. 
Personally I used to be very unbelieving in 
such matters, but my scepticism was con- 
siderably modified by the adventure I am 
going to tell you of. Very well, then. On 
one occasion in India, many years ago, I 
had got leave from my regiment for a few 
weeks in order to join a shooting expedition 
which had been got up by one of my greatest 
friends, a man many years older than I 
was then, and of much higher rank in the 
service. When, however, I arrived at our 
appointed meeting-place, I found my friend, 
the General, preparing for a more warlike 
excursion against a marauding tribe who 
had lately been extending their cattle raids 
across our frontier. The shooting expedi- 
tion having fallen through, I readily 
accepted the General's suggestion that I 
should accompany his force as a volunteer, 
and see some sport of a more exciting kind. 
A common risk, even when comparatively 
insignificant, inclines men to readier 
cordiality towards the companions they may 

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shortly be going to lose, and I was soon on 
excellent terms with the other officers, who 
were as pleasant a set of fellows as I have 
ever met. Nothing of any interest hap- 
pened till we were across the enemy's 
frontier and the force was encamped one 
night under a brilliant moon on a hill over- 
looking a thickly wooded valley. 

41 1 was strolling round camp with a 
cigar, when I was joined by one of the 
younger officers, who, not being on duty, was 
refreshing himself after the day's march in 
the same way, and we continued our walk 
together. We stopped to admire the view 
at a point where we could look down on the 
valley, and presently we fell into an argu- 
ment as to whether a bright surface which 
caught the moonlight in a glade of the 
wood below was water or a smooth slab of 
rock. It happened that my companion 
particularly prided himself on the keenness 
of his sight, and a few days before had won 
a small bet from me on the subject. I, too, 
thought that I had good eyes, and, feeling 
sure that he was wrong in his contention 
that he could detect a gentle ripple on the 
surface in dispute, I offered him a second 
bet that it was rock, and proposed to settle 
the question by myself going down to the 
spot. He accepted my bet, and, as he was 
not at liberty to leave the camp, I gaily 
started down the hill alone, telling him 
with a laugh to have the stakes ready by 
the time I returned, and never for a moment 
supposing that I was running any risk in 
the affair. 

44 1 rapidly made my way down over the 
short grass of the hillside, and, marking 
the direction of the spot in question, soon 
plunged into the darkness of the wood, the 
cavernous depth of whose shadows was 
enhanced by an occasional glint of moon- 
shine. I am not naturally superstitious. I 
have no particular aversion to midnight 
graveyards or haunted rooms, but I must 
confess I felt an uncommonly disagreeable 
feeling of something like dread when I got 
inside that wood. Everything was abso- 
lutely dead and still. Not the faintest 
rustle of a leaf, not the crick of an insect, 
nor murmur of water, but dense and awful 
blackness ! It excited my nerves. I almost 
imagined I saw black shapes moving under 
the trees, though it was quite impossible 
that anything not luminous should show 
against such an inky background. I felt 
my way cautiously, stopping constantly to 
hear if anything was moving near me. 
What cracks the twigs under my feet gave! 




What a resounding crash reverberated in 
the gloomy shades when my foot set a loose 
stone rolling ! My nerve was gone, and I 
felt horribly uncomfortable, I would gladly 
have paid my bet to be back again in camp, 
but I was bound to go through with my 
search now that I had once begun, and I 
should make myself a butt for the wit of 
the regiment if I turned back half-way to 
confess myself scared by the dark. After 
a longer time and with more difficulty than 
I had anticipated, I reached the slab of 
rock, for such it proved to be. Here J was 
clear of the trees, and I stood for a few 
moments in the bright moonlight, so that 
my friend above, who I knew would be 
watching for me to emerge from the 
shadow, might see that it was not water on 
which 1 stood. Then I turned, and struck 
out energetically for the camp. 

li I had not, however, pushed my way 
far through the undergrowth when I was 
tripped up suddenly bv what I at first took 
to be some stout creeper or protruding 
root, I fell forward on tny hands, and had 



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not time to get on my feet again before I 
learnt that it was no accident which had 
overthrown me. Before I had time to offer 
the least resistance, or even to utter a shout 
for help, I felt myself seized round the neck 
by a grip like a vice ; a few seconds more, 
and I was gagged, bound, and carried off 
through the forest, quickly, but in silence, 
As soon as subsiding astonishment left 
room for any other sensation , I felt a 
paroxysm of rage, as well against my own 
folly in running into such a trap as against 
my sudden assailants, whom I cursed none 
the less heartily for my inability to utter a 
sound. The futility of passion under the 
circumstances gradually subdued me, if not 
to philosophic fortitude t at least to suffi- 
cient calmness to speculate on my probable 
fate and on the chances of escape. For 
some time I seemed to be borne down hill 
and over irregular ground ; then we must 
have emerged from the jungle on to more 
even ground, for the pace became quicker 
and smoother. This may have gone on 
for some twenty minutes or half an hour T 
and then my captors came to a 
halt, I was set on my feet, and 
my eyes and mouth released from 
their bandages, This change of 
condition did not, however, con- 
duce to my comfort or reassurance \, while an armed native on each 
side held me firmly by my pinioned 
arms, a third presented a huge 
horse-pistol at my head at a 
yard's distance. For a few 
instants I endured ati agony 
of suspense. I involuntarily 
shut my eyes, and waited for 
the bullet to crash through 
my brain. 

" I have met many men 
who have at some time or 
other looked death pretty 
closely in the face, and you 
must often have heard it said 
that a man's mind at such 
moments reviews in a flash 
long periods of past time 
with an almost supernatural 
vividness of percept ion , but I 
didn't feel anything of this. 
I only felt that I might be 
dead in another second, and 
then T with a determination to 
4 die game/ which was rather 
an animal sensation than an 
articulate thought, I set my 
teeth and opened my eves to 
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meet those of my enemy. The pistol was still 
directed at my head, and the grim Indian 
still kept his finger on the trigger. I faced 
him defiantly, and, as though unwilling to 
change a dramatic situation 
which interested him, he still 


kept the same menacing posture, while I 
longed for the flash and the end before 
my nerve should fail. 

M At last he spoke. He spoke a dialect 
which I only imperfectly followed f but I 
understood him to say that if I tried to 
escape I should be shot on the spot. 1 fell 
no confidence that I was not being reserved 
for a more horrible death, but the instinct 
of self- preservation kept me passive. When 
at last the pistol was lowered, and I no 
longer stood in momentary expectation of 
death, I looked round me and perceived 
that I was in the middle of a group of some 
half dozen Indians, and as many horses. 
On to one of these latter I was lifted, and 
secured in the saddle by leathern thongs, 
my captors not choosing to give me the 

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chance of escape by leaving me the manage- 
ment of my horse* 

"After about an hour's hard riding, during 
which the rapid motion and the blowing of 
the cool night air on my 
face and hands acted as 
a sedative on my racked 
nerves, we reached the 
encampment of the 
hostile tribe against 
which the expedition 
had been sent out. 
And now came the 
strangest part of my 
adventures ; the part 
which bears on my ec- 
centric play to-night/' 
Here Colonel Brad* 
shaw paused to stir the 
smouldering log in the 
grate to a bright blaze, 
and then, staring in- 
to the fire and keep- 
ing the poker in his 
hands as he leaned 
forward in his chair, 
went on with his 
story, more slowly 
at first, but with 
growing animation 
of voice, which gra 
dually rose to the 
eloquence of excite- 
ment as he seemed 
to forget his imme- 
diate surroundings, 
and to live once again 
through the distant 
scene he was de- 

41 T h e h n ni a n 
brain," he resumed, vx is incapable, I im 
agine, of continuing to experience any 
intense sensation for very long. It reatf^ 
the maximum tension, and then one set 
of perceptive faculties becomes deadened. 
The previous incidents of the night had 
exhausted my capacity for fear, and, 
as I was led before the chief of the 
tribe to hear his decree concerning me, 
I awaited the decision with indifference. 
I was keenly alive to every detail of my 
surroundings, and noted the expression of 
every face> and yet I seemed somehow to 
have lost my own individuality ; to be 
watching myself as an actor in a scene with 
which I had no personal concern, but only 
looked at from some outside point of view, 
The moon was now hidden behind a hill, 




but some twenty torches lit up the spot 
with their lurid flames. The party that 
had caught me had obviously been sent out 
to reconnoitre the movements of the English 
force, and the chief had been beguiling the 
time of their absence with nothing less than 
a game of chess. 

" I was the less surprised at the nature of 
his pastime, as I knew that the game was 
widely spread in India, and had played it 
with natives myself, and knew in what 
points their game differed from our Euro- 
pean rules. The chiefs antagonist was a 
man whom I imagined, though I can't say 
exactly what suggested the idea, to be the 
priest of the tribe. He was shorter than 
the others, but his face suggested an extra- 
ordinarily active mind, and this, combined 
with his regularity of feature, would have 
made him a strikingly handsome type if it 
had not been for the fearful malignity of 
his expression. I wish I could give you 
some faint idea of that man's face, for it 
was the most terribly sinister face I have 
ever seen. His back had been turned to- 
wards me at first, but from the moment 
when I met the scrutiny of his black deep- 
set eyes, which glared on me with a look of 
mocking, triumphant devilry that must 
have been borrowed from the fiend below, 
I was fascinated, and could see nothing but 
that one diabolical face. If there is any 
truth in the Eastern belief in possession by 
evil spirits, a demon looked through that 
man's eyes. A shiver ran through my frame 
as I met his gaze, and I felt that he was 
exercising some subtle influence over me, 
against which every fibre of my body, every 
atom of my being, stiffened in revolt. I 
felt that unless I exerted the whole of my 
will-force in resistance to the dread spell he 
was casting over me, I should lose myself in 
his identity, and become the creature of his 
wicked will. It was not physical fear that 
I felt. I had passed through that stage, 
and I believe I should have met death with 
firmness, but I felt that my whole per- 
sonality was at the death-grapple with that 
fearful being — a mysterious deadly struggle, 
fought in neither act nor word, with the 
powers of darkness impersonated. 

" While all this was going on in me, the 
chief must have been listening to an 
account of my capture, though I was un- 
conscious of any words being spoken near 
me, till the priest turned from me to him, 
and, pointing to the chessboard which 
stood on a sort of low table, made a sugges- 
tion which at first I did not fully grasp. 

Digitized by GoOQK" 

Its meaning was soon made clear to me, 
however. I had some knowledge of their 
dialect, and most expressive pantomime 
conveyed the rest. I was to play a game 
of chess with the chief ; the stakes, my life 
against a safe conduct to the English lines. 
Never before had I encountered so terrible 
an opponent, and never in the history of 
the royal game had so fateful an issue been 
fought out on the battlefield of the sixty- 
four squares. I took my seat opposite the 
chief, and the torchbearers formed a wide 
ring round the table, looking, as the danc- 
ing torch-flames shone on their dark faces 
and limbs, like so many stalwart statues of 
bronze. Within the circle, and a little 
behind the king, stood the evil priest, 
motionless, with folded arms, including me 
and the board in his keen, hateful gaze. I 
knew exactly where he stood before I looked 
at him, and again I felt the same dread 
fascination working on me that I had felt 
when I first set eyes on him. The chief 
moved the pieces indeed, but I was con- 
scious in some subtle way that it was 
against his attendant's mind that I was 
pitted — that the former was scarcely more 
than an automaton under the thraldom of 
the priest's marvellous will, and the game 
itself only a sort of emblem or shadow of 
our inward contest of mind and per- 

" I played appropriately enough, with the 
white pieces, and the game itself might 
have afforded an expressive symbol of the 
antagonism of the light and dark races, of 
the clear, bright West with the mystic, 
sombre East, but the thought did not occur 
to me then. To me it was rather a struggle 
between the intangible powers of good 
and evil — a realisation in my own self of 
the eternal struggle of the universe. We 
played very slowly, and in absolute silence. 
No word was spoken nOr sign made when 
either king was checked. Hour after hour 
the priest kept the same motionless posture 
behind his chief, who played with the same 
monotonously mechanical movement of the 
hand, the same vacant mesmerised expres- 
sion on his face. Hour passed after hour, 
unmeasured by any clock, unmarked by 
any change except in the position of the 
pieces on the board. The chief, or rather 
the priest, played well ; and, though time 
after time I seemed on the point of gaining 
a decisive advantage, some unforeseen move 
always deferred my victory. 

" One piece in particular repeatedly 
thwarted my combinations. Again and 




again it constituted the weak point in a 
series of moves which should have brought 
me victory* Again and again, when, after 
straining every faculty of my brain, I made 
my move and raised my eyes to watch in 
the priest's face the effect of a stroke to 
which I saw no reply, a faint mocking smile 
would curl for a moment his cruel lips, and 
the black knight would be moved once 
more, threatening dangers which I had 
overlooked j and dashing my premature 
hopes to the ground. It was as though 
some secret link existed between that parti- 
cular bit of bone and the grim, ghoulish 
spectator of our game. Piece after piece was 
taken from the board and dropped on the 
sand at our feet ; the ranks of pawns grew 
thinner and thinner, but still that one black 
knight, now the only piece left to my 
antagonist* s P ran g over the board, evading 
my deep-laid plans for his capture- The 
opening was long passed^ the wavering for- 
tune of the middle-game had waned with 
the long hours to an 
end-game, The in- 
exorable moment which 
must decide my fate 
was close upon nie. 
"I turned for a 

moment from the board 

to ease the throbbing 

fever of my brain, A 

black veil of formless 

mist hid the stars and 

gave back the earths 

heat, till I gasped for 

breath, and drops of 

nervous sweat ran 

down my forehead. 

There was a stifling 

oppression in the 

still air, as in the 

minutes before th 3 

first lightning 

flash darts 

from the, j 

charged thun- 
der-cloud. The 

chief moved, 

and I spurred 

my flagging 

energies once 

more to the 

study of the 

game. Sud- 
denly I seemed 

to he gifted 

with extraor- 
dinary powers 


of calculation. I shut my eyes, and saw 
mentally the position change through every 
possible variation like the moving pattern 
of a kaleidoscope. I could have announced 
a mate. I knew, to the exclusion of any 
doubt, that I must win- I made my move, 
and then, concentrating every particle of 
the hatred and loathing with which the 
diabolical priest had inspired me into one 
flashing look of defiance, I tried to hurl 
from me the cursed influence of his malig- 
nant spirit and to crush it into subjection to 
mine. His face changed with a hideous con- 
tortion of defeated evil purpose, and then 
the whole devil in him rose to one supreme 
effort in answer to mine, He passed his 
hand lightly across his eyes, and leaning 
over his chief scored his forehead with a 
malevolent frown, the glare of his glittering 
eyes seeming to pierce to the brain of the 
head they nearly touched. The new spell 
began to work on the chief. An uneasy, 
puzzled look came into his face, and this 
time it was with an 
uncertain, vacillating 
movement that he 
raised his hand to play. 
Again I looked at the 
priest His expression 
was more bitterly mock- 
ing and more exult ingly 
fiendish than ever as he 
directed my glance by a 
movement of his own 
to the hand which 
hovered over the board. 
His treacherous design 
was transmitted in a 
flash to my mind by 
some unexplained in- 
teraction of our brains. 
An illegal move 
with the black 
knight, in defiance 
of the rules of the 
game, was to 
snatch the 
3 -^ nearly won vic- 
1 ' tory from my 
grasp. I saw 
the fatal square 
on which the 
piece would be 
placed j and I 
felt that if it 
reached it I 
was lost. There 
wtxft no spec- 
tators to whom 




Original from 



I could appeal against the glaring illegality, 
unconscious, no doubt T on the part of the 
hypnotised chief, and I should never be able 
to convince him afterwards of having won 
unfairly, I must prevent the move. 

" The struggle entered on the final phase. 
I had shaken off the priests mesmeric in- 
fluence over my own will ; now I must 
wrest the chiefs will from the same thraldom 
by the exertion of a counter influence, It 
was the critical moment, the culminating 
point of conflict which must at last be de- 
cisive. The chiefs hand raised the black 
knight slowly from the board, and as it began 
more slowly still to descend, I exerted all 
my power of will in one burst of straining 
endeavour to compel another move than the 
false one the priest intended. Every nerve 
in my body seemed strung to cracking. The 
wonderful sensation of my individuality, of 
the intangible essence which constitutes 
self, wrestling grimly for life with the demon* 
possessed priest, became intensified till my 
brain reeled. The chiefs hand came slowly, 
slowly down ; wavered as though uncertain 
on which square to place the piece. One 
final effort of will exhausted my faculties of 
brain and volition* 

* 4 The ordeal was over ; light had 
triumphed over darkness as day had risen 
on night, I knew the priest's influence had 
been overcome, his spell cast off, without 
the evidence of the chess-board ; I saw him 
fall backwards on the ground, every 
muscle of his body twisted in horrible con- 
tortion, as though some invisible power of 
the air were wreaking its vengeance on his 
ghastly, spasm-shaken form. The gruesome 

sight etided quickly, the violence of the 
seizure was resistless ; the muscles relaxed r 
the limbs stretched out, and he lay a 

u How I parted from my strange enter- 
tainers I can't tell you. I only know that 
the chief honourably fulfilled his pledge, and 
that, as I galloped away with a guide for 
the English camp, over the fair, green earth, 
the woods and fields dancing to the breeze 
In the sunlight, the bright clouds carrying 
my thoughts to the depths of the blue ex- 
panse they sailed in, I experienced a new 
sensation of keen, ecstatic enjoyment of life 
for its own sake. All nature seemed to 
have a fuller, better meaning to me than 
ever before, to be the physical expression of 
boundless power and happiness moving 
with all-inclusive purpose towards some 
eternal end, and I myself was filled with a 
thrilling vitality in the consciousness of being 
a part of the joyous whole/ 

The Colonel made a long pause, andthen, 
with a reluctant sigh> as he dismissed the 
wide expanse of glorious landscape which 
lay stretched out before his mind's eye, to 
return to the commonplace of his immediate 
surroundings, he picked up the paperweight 
from the board, and replacing it on the 
writing-table, concluded : — 

" Later in the day, and after my return 
to the English camp, I found this little 
fellow in a pocket of my coat. Whether I 
had put it there myself or how it got there 
I don't know, and to what extent the inci- 
dents of the night were coloured by my 
own excited imagination is a chess problem 
I must leave to your own solution, 1 

by Google * 

Original from 

Illustrated Interviews. 

No. X.— MR. K C. BURN AND. 

HIS is not the first time that 
a resident of The Boltons, 
Kensington, has 'Spoken** in 
these pages. On the last 
occasion of a visit to what 
Madame Albania little boy 
happily refers to as * 4 our village," it was to 
take tea and notes with the famous singer. 
About a dozen doors from Madame Albania 
the figures 27 are painted on the portals of 
a large white house. No. 27 stands for the 
London residence of Mr. F. C, Burnand — 
Ramsgate, by the bye, is his country abode. 
A veritable volume of correspondence 
passed between Mr. Burnand and myself 
before we met — a budget of humour which 
prepared me for the chat which was to 

Ffttm o Fkuto. ty] 


f-'UioU £ Fry, 

follow. It was all through the influenza. 
It claimed both interviewer and inter- 
viewed for its own, fortunately only for a 
limited period. But even influenza cannot 
overcome humorous instincts. Mr. Bur* 
nand cracked jokes and forwarded them 
under cover to me, even whilst he Jay in 

by Google 

bed — he couldn't help it — until at last he 
wound up the series of fun a la influenza, 
by hoping that I was, like Charles II. when 
he came back to the throne once again, 
*' thoroughly restored ! " Then he made the 
final appointment. He wrote — M * How * — 
that's your affair ; 4 When' — Thursday next, 
12 o'clock ; i Where' — 27, The Roltons." 

Thursday* 12 noon. Scene — 27, The Bol- 
tons, I am discovered. Enter Mr. Burn and r 
followed by the household pet— a remark- 
ably fine creature with a noteworthy tale ; 
but I am requested to take no notice of the 
cat's tail, as it is the history of its owner — 
that is, of course, Mr. Burnand — I am there 
to learn, Mr. Burnand wears a lounge 
jacket and the familiar tie loosely hanging 

from the neck. 
He is of medium 
height, and strong- 
ly built. His hair 
is grey, and care- 
fully parted down 
the middle. His 
face is ruddy and 
his expression 
happy, with an 
irresistible twinkle 
about the eyes. 
For his appear- 
ance in past years 
we must refer our 
readers to the por- 
traits of celebrities 
on another page. He is a merry 
nan and cheerful companion — and 
as a teller of anecdote is probably 
unequalled, for he acts every one 
of his stories, Cigars, and wax 
vestas^— and a journalistic bailiff 
commences to take his customary 
inventory of the contents of the 

The entrance hall contains 
Chinese vases filled with palms. Over the 
fireplace is a very early oil painting of Mr. 
Burnand, with note-book and pencil in 
hand, by the late J, Prescott Knight, once 
secretary of the Royal Academy. Some of 
the sketches are particularly good. Just by 
the door is a pen-and-ink sketch on a sheet 
Original from 




of writing paper by Sir 
John Gilbert T dated 
May, 1877. It h a 
Cavalier, *' treated in a 
cavalier manner," An- 
other clever drawing by 
the same artist, done a 
year later, represents an 
inn of the medieval era, 
with the landlord rush- 
ing out with the bill, 
at his heels a dog "of 
the Middle Ages" 
barking, and a knight 
galloping away on 
horseback, with his 
fingers extended, and 
very rudely placed in 
close proximity to his 
nose. It is called 4t Tick* 1 ' 
Sir John Gilbert writes 
underneath, " The 
artist, anxious to serve 
and please his employer, 
has given to the subject 
suggested the grandest 
and most thoughtful 
care. In truth, it is one 
which calls for the 
deepest consideration, 
principally because 
of the novelty of the 
subject ; never be- 
fore has a gallant 
knight been so de- 
picted. Let it not 
be seen. Hide it, 
destroy it — the de- 
signer is ashamed of 
it.'' The explanation 
of it all is written on 
the picture by its pre- 
sent owner : H Sent 
to me by Sir John 
Gilbert, R.A M in con- 
sequence of my 
Punch notice about 
his ' Ready ' picture 
in Royal Academy, 
1878, wherein I sug- 
gested that his next 
subject should be 
Tick. — K C, R" 
Just then a wire- 
haired fox - terrier, 
the property of one 
of Mr. Burnand's 
sons, rushes up as a 
reminder to note a »„■,<, 

Digitized by Ci 

Si* tr/.hit' T> AN VERS Tirjt 

Original from 

couple of canine etch- 
ings by Harding Cox. 

Nearer in the direc- 
tion of the conservatory 
is a black and white of 
Miss Dorothy Dene f by 
Sir Frederic Leighton T 
a delightful little group 
of Dutch children by 
G« H. Boughton, and 
hard by a couple of 
pictures, reproduced in 
these p;iges. They arc- 
re mi niscences of Mr. 
Burnand*s famous bur- 
lesque of Douglas Jer- 
rold's nautical drama, 
11 Black-Eyed Susan/' 
which had a run of 
over four hundred con- 
secutive nights at the 
Royalty Theatre, The 
first is by Fred Walker, 
and shows Fred C. 
Dewar as Captain 
Crossir&i and Miss 
Patty Oliver as the 
dark -eyed Susan (see 
next page). Their sig- 
natures are appended. 
In this burlesque a 
low - comedy actor, 
who was a marvel- 
lously clever dancer 
also, named Danvers, 
played DameHatiey. 
His feet moved at 
such a rate that when 
John Tenniel went 
to see it he chroni- 
cled the effect of the 
dancer's feet, as seen 
in the other drawing, 
writing below it — 

Deer. 15, 1875. 
Dear F. C. B t 
The sketch you see 
Of Dam* Hailty 
In your m mt dk 
Burlesq^ — u — e 
Waa sketched by me 
From meniorie* 

The drawing-room 
is a quiet } pretty 
apartment, lighted 
by a huge chandelier 
suspended in the 


34 1 




centre. The walls are of cream and amber. 
The mirrors are many, *ome in white 
enamelled frames, others in crimson plush. 
The windows are draped with lace and rose- 
coloured curtains. 
The portraits are 
not numerous — 
these pictorial re- 
minders of friends 
are for the most 
pan at Ramsgate 
— but one notes 
an excellent like- 
ness of the Pope, 
an early cabinet of 
the owner of the 
house, and another 
of Mr. Toole as 
Paw CI (indian. 
On a table is a 
great album con- 
taining reproduc- 
tions of some of 
the works of art in 
the collection of 
Theophilus Bur- 
nand, Esq., uncle 
of Mr. F.C. There 
are some grand » Q m * Worn. 1 

examples by Goodall, Cooper, Cooke* 

Horsfey, Suit, &c, including Roberts' great 

work of the * b Interior of Milan Cathedral;* 

The dining-room looks on the garden, 

i£Jjurff AFfir. 

by Google 

Original from . 



jrfutu a. I'huUi. i/j/j 


where the trees are just shooting out their 
first welcome to the return of spring. The 
walls of this room are of a calm pale blue. 
Silver cups and tankards are set out on the 

oaken sideboard, 
flowers — the liny 
narcissus and 
yellow lily — fill 
the vases on the 
mantelpiece, and 
the " latest out M 
in books are lying 
about. Over one 
of the bookcases 
are a trio of 
sketches by Lin* 
ley Sambourne, 
the centre of 
which shows Mr. 
Burnand smok- 
ing a cigar with 
Bismarck, and 
now publicly seen 
for the first time. 
Mr. Burnand 
went to Aix-la- 
Chapelle, and this 
was sent to him 
by Mr, Sara- 
bourne in remembrance thereof. As a 
matter of fact, the two B*s never met, but 
for all that the picture is a very "happy 
thought/' An etching by Professor Hubert 


aittot tf] 

THE TWO \. *, 

: LMttf Sar»b"W*t. 

by Google 

Original from 



Herkonier of Mr. J, S. Forbes, the chairman 
of the L. C. and D. Railway, hangs on the 
walls, and considerable space is taken up by 
the same accomplish- 
ed artist's striking 
life-size picture of Mr. 
F. C Burnand, Just 
beneath this is a 
crayon drawing of 
Mr. Bumand's 
mother at the age of 
fifteen, which we here 
reproduce. Upstairs 
in Mr, Burnand's 
dressing-room is a 
delightful painting of 
the same lady by A. 
E. Chalon/ R.A., 
done in 1834, I could 
not help lookingupon 
this room and the 
adjoining bedroom 
with some consider- 
able curiosity, Mr, 
Burnand has only 
been an occupant of 
the house for a few 
months. This room 
was once occupied 
by Miss Elliott, who 
after wards becam e 
Mrs, Osborne- 

The study is to the left of the entrance 
hall, and is made bright by a small glass 
conservatory in 
the window. The 
writing table is a 
large one. The 
letter - clips are 
suggestive. One 
takes the shape of 
a huge silver 4i B," 
anchor twined 
round with golden 
ropes. On this 
table a double row 
of books are set 
out — the back 
row comprising a 
dozen or more 
standard diction- 

The chair occu- 
pied by Mr. Bur- 
nand when writ^ 
ing is of black 
ebony — when 
reading, a dis- 

tnrm «. 


tinctly comfortable- look ing brown leather 
easy -chair. The little wooden stage which 
stands close by is five-and -twenty year> 

old* It is an exact 
model of the stage 
of the old Royalty, 
with only one trap- 
door, which was used 
for everything, from 
the unexpected ap 
pearance of a sprite 
to the sudden dis- 
appearance of a ban ■ 
quet. To - day Mr, 
Burnand works out 
all his situations on 
it when pi ay -writing. 
He uses figures for 
his characters, just 
as Mr. W, S, Gilbert 
does, and, in the old 
i New Royalty T days, 
Patty Oliver would 
often have these 
wooden characters 
dressed up in diminu- 
live silks and satins, 
I counted a dozen 
pipes on the mantel- 
board — from a smalt 
meerschaum to a 
weighty cherry wood. All round the apart- 
ment are bookshelves, with convenient cup- 
boards below. 



[Flli<ti1& Frp. 

by Google 

Original from 











^B ^B ^K 

Fro* a Photo, bit] ktft, burnand's model stage. 

** Ah ! that snuff-box/* exclaimed Mr, 
Burnand, as I took up an old gold Empire 
box, on the lid of which was a bouquet of 
diamonds. w It was a legacy. It belonged 
to an old friend on whom I was continually 
playing practical jokes when stopping at 
his house. He had a habit of always 
keeping the box by the side of him at the 
head of the table, to which his hand used 
to wander in search of it continually. On 
the occasion of a dinner party, I hid the 
box. Dinner proceeded. My host's fingers 
wandered to the customary place — he was 
in a great fidget — the box not there, of 
course. He appealed to us, but we know 
nothing about it. He left the room in 
search of it — it was nowhere to be found. 
Just as I was leaving I drew him on one 
side and said quietly, * My dear old chap, 
just a little testimonial 1 want to present to 
you ! T and put the snuff-box in his hand. 

11 ' Ah ! ' he chuckled, 4 you seem very 
fond of that snuff-box/ He must have gone 
to his room that very night and- made an 
addition to his wilt, foT many years passed 
before he died, and — he left me the snuff- 
box. 1 * 

A set of boxing-gloves and singlesticks 
are picturesquely arranged on one of the 
book -cases. Mr. Burnand is as fond to-day 
of a fencing bout or a little "play" with 
the gloves as he was when he w T as at Eton, 
where he was taught to become useful in 
this direction by a Corporal Munday. 

Mr, Burnand began life as a baby just 
seven months before Her Gracious Majesty 
ascended the throne. The latter event was 
in June, 1837, and the former in November, 
1R36. Mr. Burnand claims to be a 
"cockney TT — he was born somewhere within 
the sound of Bow Bells, and was christened 

Francis Cowley. He was sent to 
school when barely seven years 
old, and at his third school, at 
Paul's Cray, Kent, he shared a 
bed -room with a schoolfellow who 
had a marvellous memory, and 
when lights went out they would 
He awake together whilst the 
youth would whisper to little 
Francis plot after plot of Scott's 
novels. Francis used to dramatise 
them and act them. His first real 
dramatic effort, however, was at 

11 1 went to Eton/' said Mr, 
Burnand f " soon after I was 
thirteen. I did my fagging very 
well. Fagging ! an excellent 
thing. It cannot fail to give a boy a vast 
amount of respect for his superiors. I well 

[Elliott ^ Ptp. 

by Google 


Original from 



remember the pain 1 felt when 1 had to 
expend five shillings in the purchase of 
my own birch, 1 wish I had kept that 
birch — it would have been an excellent 
reminder, I lived in the Rev, Gifford Cooks- 
ley's house. He was a very funny fellow. 
He was wonderfully kind-hearted — so kind- 
hearted, indeed, that if 
he had a fellow birched 
he would not see him 
for a couple of days 
a f te r ward s . Cook sle y 
was very fond of thea- 
tricals. He often took a 
party of us — some seven 
or eight — to the old 
Windsor theatre. He 
paid all expenses — seats 
in the dress circle, and 
a supper afterwards, 
After the performance 
we would go on the 
stage and chat with the 
actors. If there were 
any children playing he 
always had sixpence for 
them. Well ? I wrote a 
play called 'Guy Fawkes 
Day,' and it was pro- 
duced in Gifford Cooks- 
ley's own room. This 
same piece was also 
played for one night 
only at the Worthing 
Theatre soon afterwards. 
The manager was to 
have a benefit, and he 
called on a relative of 
mine asking for his 
patronage. The con- 
dition of granting it was 
that * Guy Fawkes Day ' 
should be produced. It 

**I went to Trinity 
College, Cambridge, 
when I was ij, and remained there until 
20, when I took my B.A, degree/* 

I shall probably be correct in saying that 
though studies were not forgotten acting 
was ever remembered. It was there that 
he started the famous Amateur Dramatic 
Company, of which he is still a member, 
and only recently the Honourable James 
Lowther set a movement on foot for the paint- 
ing of the founder's portrait, a commission 
having been given to Mr. C. M. Newton, 
the artist. At Cambridge Mr. Burnand 
wrote some of the brightest and merriest 


by Google 

farces ever conceived. They had the true 
ring of humour about them. He hands 
me a little volume. It contains some of the 
many pieces he wrote whilst at Cambridge* 
" Villikirus and his Dinah ,T was the first, in 
which the author played Gruffitr ; another 
was "In for a Holyday,' 1 in which Mr. 
Burnand played Mr, 
Gustavns Popple^ a 
young gentleman re- 
tained between ten and 
three by Government ; 
" Romance under Diffi- 
culties," in which the 
author appeared as 
Timothy Diggies ; and 
" Alonzo the Brave, or 
Faust and the Fay re 
lmogene/' in which Mr T 
Burnand acted a pro* 
minent part. Through 
this little volume are 
scattered criticisms in 
ink and pencil. Here 
are some suggestive re* 
marks made on the fljv 
leaf respecting " St* 
George and the Dragon ! 
An historical ■ comical ■ 
cal burlesque ,T : 

" Wednesday the 20th 
February , 1855/' 

11 First night of the 
burlesque. Alf Thomp- 
son obliged to throw up 
the King on account of 
being ordered off in- 
stanter to the Crimea on 
the 19th. (3 p.m.) 
Thomhill took the part. 
The first act, with the 
exception of St George's 
speech, so ng — Tu f tee *s 
song — and the last 
chorus, hung fire ; Kelly 
utterly forgetting his part, and the prompter 
being among the chorus he (Kelly) was 
a *gone coon/ Act II. J£ara took, but 
the duets between Zara and Dragmi went 
flatly. * Oh diddle do ' encored dubiously* 
The Bones dance encored dubiously, Fanny 
Frail, great success, Scene 2nd, very fair. 
( Cheap Chesterfield/ Scene 1st, Act III 
fioor y find Mr. F> C, Burnand slightly fiw~ 

got his tag which ," It is chronicled 

that the second night of burlesque was 
better. u Mr. Kelly got on very well, 
and having discovered the jokes in 

A A 


M 6 


the day time they were taken in the 
evening. 1 * 

Mr. Burnand told with great gusto of his 
interview with the Vice-Chaneellor for per* 
mission for the first performance. 

The worthy Vice-Chancellor was in a 
hurry, as he had tn attend a u meeting of 
the Heads.- T Was it a Greek play ? Good 
gracious, no ; it was " Box and Cox. 11 
After the query as to the Greek drama, 
young Burnand was afraid to tell him the 
title, and therefore merely said, 4t We are 
thinking of playing a little piece by Mr. 
Maddison Morton,' 

"Fellow of Trinity ? Tt asked the Vice- 

He was not. 

"Urn ! And you propose acting a play 
written by Mr- Morton, who is not a Fellow 
of Trinity ? What is the name ? " 

u Box and Ouy' replied the undergrad. 

Fortunately time prevented the Vice* 
Chancellor from asking if Box and Cox were 
Fellows of Trinity, and he went forth and 
laid the matter before "the Heads," The 
permission was denied. But Mr, Burnand 
and his fellow Thespians were not to be 
put down by the Heads* They got a couple 
of rooms at "The Hoop Hotel," and alter 
having ladders placed handy for escape in 
case the college authorities got wind of the 
occurrence, a start was made. From that 
day the club has remained one of the most 
successful of all amateur societies. Here 
is the first programme :— 


This evening will be presented 



Colontt Jack Delaware ,„...*..*..... Mr. G, Seymour. 

Griffm ♦,♦...,♦.. ♦ Mr. Torn Pierce. 

Biffin ♦......♦*.... , Mr. A. Herbert. 

To be followed by 



Che iter field Homy bun .. ..,»♦«.„ M r* T o m P ier c e . 

Crank ..„ •...< — .<« Mr, W, Smith. 

Afrs, Ucughton .... . ...... Mr, C, Digby* 

Mrs. Crank,.... Mr. T\ Kin^. 

MrStJtweU,.... ..,., ..„.„.„,.. Mr. R. Johnson, 

To conclude with the Burlesque Tragic Opera, 


A rtaxominous ( A mg of Utopia) , , . M r. T o m Pi erce . 

After,.. ...,,, i\ir. T. King. 

General Btimhasits ..,♦>.,........... Mr. James Scale, 

Distaffina Mr. C, Dlgby. 

Army, Courtiers, &c. 

Acting Manager^ Tom Pierce, Esq. 

Stage Manager— N. Yates, Esq. 

Prompter--}. Shepherd! Esq, 

Scenery and Appointments by S, J. E. [ones, E^ci, 

Many of these names wzretmms dcihf&tre. 
Mr. A, Herbert was General FitzGerald, 
whilst Mr. Tom J^'ercf was Mr. F. C. 
Burnand. It was under the name of u Tom 
Pierce 11 that he wrote many successful 
plays. The portraits reproduced in these 
page* show Mr. Burnand in many of the 
characters which he played at Cambridge— 
as Phf>ph\ in " In for a Holyday"; as 
Mepkistopheles^ in "Alonzo the Brave" 1 ; 
as Jumbo j in li Turkish Waters " ; as Rnmti- 
foozle; and as the Ex-Chicken^ with Mr, 
Quinton Twiss — a celebrated amateur — as 
Benjamin Bobbin, in " B, B.," a farce 
written by Mr. F. C. Burnand in con- 
junction with Mr. Montagu Williams, 
Mr. Burnand still has the MS. of the original 
plot of ''Alonzo the Brave/' produced at 

"Well," Mr. Burnand continued, in his 
happiest mood, " I took my degree, and left 

by \j*Q 


Original from 


1 |J-F 

quimtov t%vi*s a.s ^ benj,\mi\ hiibnin. 

\1R. I Ll'KJJAN i a* THE f " RX-CMICKJ-N". 

Cambridge. I may tell you that during my 
last year at Cambridge I determined to 
adopt the Church as my profession, and an 
uncle of mine promised me a good country 
living, which was at that time in his gift. 
My studies were commenced under Dr. 
Harold Browne, and continued at Cuddes- 
don College, under the Rev. H. P, Liddon 
— subsequently Canon Liddon. However, I 
finally found myself in the Seminary of the 
Oblates of St. Charles at Bays water, of which 
community Dr, Henry Edward Manning — 
the Lite Cardinal — was the head. I have 
seen Cardinal Manning — remember, I am 
speaking of the days when I was at Bays- 
water— put up his fists and spar and hit out 
most scientifically with all the fun imagin- 
able. In his quiet way he would say, as he 
1 let go * his left at an imaginary foe, * Ah ! 
I think I could do it.* T must confess to 
commencing a play even whilst I was study- 
ing there, I finished my reading, and left. 
Previous to doing so, I went in to see Dr. 

11 ( Well, well, 1 he said, * and what are you 
going to do ? ' 

" ' I'm not quite sure, Dr, Manning/ was 
my reply. 

M ' Ah* ! ■ said the Doctor, ' I'm afraid you 
have no vocation for the priesthood/ 

iU No,' I said, ( I have no vocation— at 
least, not for the priesthood/ 

by Google 

" 4 I don't understand/ the Doctor ex- 
claimed ; ' what you mean by a vocation for 
anything else. This is a great question, 
und one concerning the soul.' 

"Then I went straight at it. 'Well, 
Doctor/ I said, * I rather thought of going 
on the stage/ 

"'Why, you might as well call cobbling 
a vocation/ the Doctor said, surprised. 

41 'Yes/ I replied, quietly, 4 there would 
be more sole in it, wouldn't there ? ' 

u I can see him now laughing. He let 
me go. 

'' Shortly after that I went to Edinburgh, 
where I met my old Etonian school 
friend, Mr. Montagu Williams, and acted 
at Mr, Wyndham's — Robert Wyndham, 
not Charles — Theatre. Then I stayed a 
good time at Esher with George Meredith. 
He had just written his first book, * Richard 
Feverell f — a work never beaten by him- 
self. I have a first edition of it. I 
came to London, and went to the Bar 
— not with success, I did a little at the 
Cler ken well Sessions. Why did I give up 
the Bar ? The following is the reason : I 
made a fearful hash of a case of forgery 
in which the wife was committed with her 
husband. I had to defend the wife, Besley 
was for the prosecution. It will show you 
how much I knew about the ways of the 
court when I tell you that I actually asked 
Original from 




Besley what to do. He wrote back on a 
slip of paper, * Just get up and say, fcl Coer- 
cion by husband/" I did. Russell Gurney^ 
the Recorder, at once discharged her The 
ungrateful woman was so cross at being 
separated from her husband that she took 
off her boot and threw it at me. With 
the throwing of the 
boo* I threw up the 

" I was then play- 
writing. My first piece 
was produced at the 
St, James's, under the 
direction of Chatterton 
and Miss Wyndham. 
It ra i a hundred nights 
— a very considerable 
run in those days. I 
got £2? down, and £2 
a night for it. How 
did I get my first com- 
mission ? I will tell 
you. At one time of 
^reat distress and diffi- 
culty I had to sell all 
my books. I thought 
to myself, 'I've got 
four plays printed, why 
should they not bring 
me a little coin ? ' I 
called on Mr. Lacy in 
the Strand, and he gave 
me jTfl for them. I had 
a MS, of 'Dido,' which 
I had &hown to Mr. 
W. B. Donne, the 
Licenser of Plays. He 
advised me to show it 
10 Robson. Robson 
had just produced a 
burlesque on k Medea/ 
so could not manage it, 
I gave the MS, to Lacy 
to look over. Shortly 
afterwards I had a 
letter from him asking 
me to come down to his shop. It seems a Mr. 
Chas, Young had been struck by the piece, 
Young was an Australian comedian. He 
liked one of the parts, and promised to show 
it to Chatterton, one of the then lessees of 
the St. James's, Chatterton accepted it. 
At this time I did not know a soul in the 
literary world, Then I wrote * B, B/ with 
Montagu Williams, another piece — 'The 
Isle of St. Tropez' — with him for the 
Wigans, and I was writing burlesques pretty 
frequently for the Olympic, 

MM. bL' US" AN J J AS 

by Google 

"Robson was unequalled as a comedian. 
He was a great study , with \Vonderful 
flashes of real wit at rehearsal. He played 
in ' B, B./ and I may tell you that it was 
his personality which suggested the part 
to Montagu Williams and myself. At re- 
hearsal Robson used to make us laugh so 
much that we couldn't 
get on, and a farce 
taking forty minutes to 
play would often take 
three hours with him 
to rehearse. In the 
midst of a passage he 
would shout, k Oh! oh ! 
I Ye thought of such a 
funny thing ! Now 
supposing/ addressing 
a brother actdr, * I put 
my left hand on your 
shoulder just in that 
part. Now let's run 
through that little bit 
again ! * 

** We did as he re- 
quested, and at the 
situation Robson w oul d 
put his right hand on 
the other actors shoul- 
der, which, of course r 
reversed the positions. 
When we remonstrated 
with him it was always, 
1 Oh, the other wouldn't 
have done at all ! * " 

It will be a surprise 
to many to know that 
Mr, Burnand's connec- 
tion with Punch — of 
which paper he was 
destined years after to 
become the Editor — - 
commenced when he 
was at college. He was 
a capital draughtsman, 
and recorded his im- 
pressions pictorially on 
the fly -leaf of any book he could lay his 
pencil on, There are, in Vol. xxviii* of 
J*imch % a couple of pictures, with no signa- 
tures, drawn by Leech, the original draw- 
ings for which were sent to Mark Lemon- 
then the Editor — bv Mr, Burnand whilst 
at Cambridge, One is on page 28 of the 
volume. This is entitled, 4b Friendly , but 
Very Unpleasant tf : — 

Livih Patty (charging elderly gentleman with his 
umbrellu) : u Halloa, Jones ! " 

Disgust of Elderly Party, who*c name is Smith. 

Original from 



tkax, ■ WitL, Sib T " 

QnAti tintvtrtiiy Man (under tkr impnmion t)tat he not in-ttaiat the Dzan ftg hi* 
ci>n*picut>tL§ m9U4tac/rrry "I BELIEVE I OH WAKTED TO +&T£k& TO UE, A1K, AHOl/t— 

Dtan. " Soue Mistake, Em I 1 nmn'T rEitCErvE tbat iotr had ajit I 1 * 

By kin*f permi*4ion qf iht PropriHart of "* I'unrh."] 

The a Elderly Party's" face is just as 
Mr, Burnand drew it ; the other is Leech's 
own, and, therefore, all the more remark- 
able. The second picture, here given, Is 
still more interesting. Though Mr, Bur- 
nand knew neither Leech nor Mark Lemon, 
when he sent the drawing he requested 
John Leech to be kind enough to copy the 
Dean exact ly t as it was a likeness of the 
Rev. Mr. Hedley, Senior Dean of Trinity 
College, Cambridge, while the youth was a 
burlesque presentment of himself. Owing 
to Mr- Burnand's going in for acting, he 
had sacrificed a very small moustache. 

Mr. Burnand had very little difficulty 
in getting on the staff of Punch. Whilst 
engaged in play writing he also did con- 
siderable journalistic work, and amongst 
other journals was with the late Henry J. 
Byron and Mr. W, S. Gilbert on Fun. 
Tom Hood was editor then, and the pro- 

K net or a looking-glass manufacturer named 
H Maclean," said Mr. Burnand, u used to 
smile very broadly, and show a set of teeth 
that led Byron to call him Maclean teeth. 
I took a very good idea to Maclean. It was 

by CiOOgle 

to imitate the popular novelists 
of the day, and I drew out the 
first sketch for his inspection. 
He wouldn't see it. I wrote to 
Mark Lemon and asked him to 
see me. He did ; he saw me 
and my notion at once. The 
firht was to be a burlesque of a 
page in The London Journal, 
Sir John Gilbert was illustrating 
that paper at the time. 

"'Well get Gilbert to do 
the pictures,' cried Lemon. 
Gilbert undertook the work, 
and so it came about that he 
had to burlesque himself! 
Millais did a picture for it, so 
did ' Phiz/ Du Maurier, tmd 
Charles Keene. 

u Keene ! I never knew Keene 
tell an anecdote in his life. He 
couldn't. He could recollect 
something about a story, but 
could never get through it. 
There he would sit, pulling 
away at his little stump nf a 
pipe, and all of a sudden break 
out into a laugh and chuckle, 
and endeavour to contribute his 
anecdote something in this style : 
*' * I can't help laughing '— 
chuckle. 'I once went to see" 
- k somebody — I forget his name, 
but y'iull know — about twenty- five years 
ago' — chuckle. 'When I say twenty-five 
I mean two or three years ago '—chuckle. 
1 I was going from T — chuckle — l what's 
that place ? Ah ! I forget, but it was on a 
'bus. There, it was the funniest thing 
you ever saw + — prolonged chuckle — * I was 
outside — no, it was inside, when suddenly 

the man said to me ' 

"'What man, Charlie? 1 we would ask. 
" ( Why, the man, He said to me — no, it 
wasn't me. Ah ! well, it's no matter ' — 

11 * Well, what made you laugh, Charles ? * 
was our question. 

" * Why, the '—chuckle—' the—the joke ! ' 
11 l What joke?' 

"'Well ? - — chuckle — ' I hardly remember 
the joke ; but — it was ahmit that time /* 

11 Poor Keene had an anecdote which he 
always wound up with, i They were Ribston 
pippins, 1 but nobody ever knew what the 
story was about, or where it began. 

"Oh, yes, I knew Thackeray well- 
Thackeray sold mc once. It happened at hi:- 
house at Prmce's-gate, on the occasion of 

Original from 





my first visit there. He had his study 
fitted up with bookshelves all round. 
Thackeray would invariably lead up the 
conversation with a reference to some poet- 

I thought him in error one day, so I said, 

I I don't think that is the quotation/ 

lb ' I think so, 1 replied Thackeray. y But 
there are his 
works on that 
shelf/ pointing 
to the door T en 
which were ar- 
ranged shelves, 
as I thought ; 
1 mount the 
ladder and see 
for yourself/ 

11 T did &o. 
made a grasp 
for the volume, 
and found they 
were all dum- 
mies ! Thack- 
eray was de 

To-day Mr. 
Burnand sits in 
the identical 
chair once oc- 
cupied by Mark 
Lemon, Shir- 
ley Brooks, and 
Tom Taylor, 
ihe latter of 
whom he suc- 
ceeded as editor 
of Piuith in 
iSHo + It is an 
old- fash i on ed wood e J i 
Wed n esday night 
dinner is held 

Jr'rvm a PftoUt. fryj 


armchair. Every 
the famous Punch 
About fourteen sit down 
at the ancient table, on which are cut the 
names of everybody — cut with their own 
hands — who have been privileged to find a 
scat there- One visitor invariably creeps 
into the editor's room — the Punch cat. Jt 
h the biggest cat in the neighbourhood of 
Fleet-street j and when Mr. Burnand is 
working it always perches on his chair. 
The Punch dinner is a suggestive meal. 
Everybody there contributes some idea. 
After dinner the members of the Punch 
staff go into committee on the political and 
s*>cial topics of the day. The result of this 
deliberation is the cartoon and second 

cartoon, or u Cartoon, junior," of the next 

It is a remarkable fact that only one 
mishap in the principal cartoon has 
happened during Mr. Burnand's editorship, 
It was at the period when Khartoum was 
supposed to be all right and General Gordon 

safe. All Eng- 
land was ex- 
pecting Gor- 
don^ release, 
and Punch ap- 
peared with a 
picture of him 
— triumphant. 
Mr. Burnand 
was on his way 
with Mr* Sam- 
bourne to an ex- 
hibition of pic- 
tures in Bond- 
street. Sudden- 
ly the news- 
boys were heard 
shouting. Their 
rapid and often 
utterances were 
in i s understood 
by Mr. Bur- 
nand, who turn- 
ed to his com- 
panion and said, 
bl Well, we are 
all right with 
the cartoon. ?J 

But the boys 
drew nearer, 
what they are 
" I'll get a 

[Kttivtt & t'rjf. 

think that is 
Sambourne said. 

u r don't 
crying/ 1 Mr. 

The paper contained the news of the 
death of General Gordon. 

A Parisian paper, in commenting upon 
the prediction in Punch , said the cartoon 
" showed what all England was expecting/' 

I was just leaving The Boltons, and 
shaking hands with Mr. Burnand. 

14 How does one become a humorist ? " I 

li Oh ! " was the reply, " it comes from 
having a serious turn of mind and not 
yielding to it ! M 

HarkV How. 

by Google 

Original from 


By F. Baykokd Harrison. 

Part I —The Invalid ix White* 

famous surgeon, had retired 
to his apartments after a 
professional round t and had 
hardly begun to eat the dinner 
which his old servant, 
Manette, served to him, when a note 
was brought to him. He inquired who had 
brought it, but the concierge had not 
noticed the messenger. It was one after- 
noon early in April, 1727 ; the place was 
Paris ; and Isez was the most fashionable 
doctor of his day, and niueh in request 
among the fine ladies and gentlemen of 

The note, a sheet of white paper written 
on in pale ink, and in a very small, un- 
characteristic handwritiiigi contained these 
words : — 

" M, the surgeon J. F. Isez k prayed to 
belake himself this afternoon, at six o'clock, 
to the Rue du Pot-deTer, near the Luxem- 

There was no signature, 
M, Ise^ threw on him his cloak with the 
velvet collar, called a sedan chair, and 
hurried away to his unknown patient, 

By the time that Ise^ arrived at the Rue 
du Pot-de-fer it was quite dark. The oil 
lamps, swinging here and there, gave but 
little light. On one side of the street were 
the doors of old-fashioned houses ; on the 
other a few* shop* and cabarets* succeeded 
by a long, high blank wall. As Isez' chair- 
men picked their stumbling steps over the 

Digitized by G* 

cobbles, they sounded loud in the silent 
street, and they saw no living creature save 
a few dugs and cats prowling about and 
sniffing at the heaps of refuse thrown in 
the road. 

But when they had proceeded about half 
the length of the wall, they became aware 
of a man's figure, standing motionless. This 
man, as soon as he saw Isez 1 chair, 
approached and said, " Do I speak to M« 
Isez ? u 

M Yes, lam he/ 1 replied the surgeon. 

11 You are late. It is long past six 
o'clock/ 1 

"I have only just received the note, I 
came at once, I did not even wait to finish 
my dinner. 1 ' 

"Dinner ! n the man repeated, in a tone 
of infinite contempt* " Follow me/' 

The stranger led the way. He was plainly 
clothed in black, and Isez could judge 
nothing from his manner as to the meaning 
of this adventure. 

They went a few steps along the street, 
and then the stranger opened, by some 
secret -means, a narrow door in the wall* 
and motioned to Isez to enter. The sur- 
geon did so, the door closed behind him, 
shutting out the man who had acted as his 

He found himself in a smalt courtyard, 
and facing him was the entrance of a house, 
a porch with a row of pillars, showing white 
through the darkness. 

A porter appeared, and ushered Isez into 
a wide hall paved with marble, from which 
a fine staircase led to the upptsr stories. 




There was nothing remarkable about the 
porter, and Isez believed himself to be in 
the hotel of some noble or wealthy gentle- 

H Monsieur is expected on the first floor, 
if he will give himself the trouble to 
mount/' said the porter, indicating the 

Isez went up. Facing him was a door t 
half open, through which light shone ; he 
passed by it into an ante-chamber hung 
with white, It was singular, even start- 

The walls were covered with white velvet ; 
chairs and sofas were of the same material ; 
the carpet was of plain thick white wool, 
and every step which Isez made left a deep 
depression, A small table of white wood 
supported a white china lamp which burnt 
but feebly. Of other furniture there was 

A lackey was in this room, a young man 
tall and handsome f clothed entirely in 
white — coat, waistcoat, breeches, stockings, 
shoes, all in dead-white material ; his hair 
was thickly powdered and carefully curled, 
and tied with a white silk bow ; white late 
ruffles at his neck and wrists ; his skin was 
of a peculiar white 
tint which struck the 
p rof essiona 1 eye of 
Isez as being morbid 
and diseased, 

" M. Isez," he said, 
coming to meet the 
surgeon, H be so good 
as to wipe your 
shoes," And he 
handed him a linen 
duster which lay be- 
side the lamp. 

u It is not neces 
sary, 1 ' answered Isez ; 
" I have only just got 
out of my chair, and 
my shoes are not 

4 'Nevertheless," re- 
turned the lackey t " it 
must be done as a 
precaution. Every- 
thing in this house is 
of extreme cleanli- 
ness, and you must 
be so good as to wipe 
your shoes," 

Isez shrugged his 
shoulders and obeyed. 
He rubbed his shoes 

with the duster, and showed the man that 
hardly a speck of dust came off on the 

The servant bowed gravely. " This 
way/' said he, moving down the narrow 
room, towards a door opposite to that by 
which the surgeon had entered. 

Through this door Isez passed into a 
larger apartment, hung with white silk. 
It contained handsome furniture of white 
wood upholstered in w T hitc silk. The 
carpet was of roughly- woven silk. There 
were several marble tables ; china vases, 
lace curtains, alabaster candlesticks, and 
various other ornamental articles decorated 
the room ; and Isez saw at one glance that 
that though all was of the same uniform 
shade of white, yet all was in the highest 
degree handsome and expensive. 

A second lackey approached, also a good- 
looking but pallid young man. He, too, 
was powdered and curled, and clothed in 
white ; but whereas the first servant had 
worn cloth, this man's garments were of 
thick ribbed silk. By this time Isez was 
growing somewhat accustomed to the 
dazzling w p hite tones all around him, and 
also to the air of mystery which pervaded 


by Google 

Original from 



the house. He was not surprised, therefore, 
when the lackey handed him a second linen 
cloth and bade him wipe his shoes a second 
time, He did it in silence, and found not 
even a suspicion of dust. 

This ceremony ended t the servant opened 
another door, and ushered Isez into a third 

Again, the room was entirely furnished 
in white* The walls were hung with fluted 
satin ; the sofas and chairs were covered with 
broche satin ; the carpet was of satin, on 
which was a raised pattern of flowers in 
velvet ; a large bed with heavy satin cur- 
tains and thick quilt stood at one side of 
the room. A dressing-table was in the bay- 
window, from which every breath of air 
was excluded by voluminous draperies, The 
atmosphere was heavy, as if never purified 
by sunshine or breeze, but always lighted 
up by white wax candles in girandoles 
against the walls. 

The inhabitant of this chamber was a 
strange figure which sat tn a fauteuil beside 
the fireplace of white tiles, on which burnt 
an open fire of coal and wood — the only 
touch of colour and brightness which Isez 
had seen in the ghostly house, A tall, stout 
person this appeared to he T wearing a white 
satin nightcap, and a white satin dressing- 
gown lined with white fur. A white mask 
covered his face, of which only two pale-blue 
eyes could be seen. 

As soon as this extraordinary, fantastic 
figure saw Ise* enter, he said in a mono- 
tonous, hoarse voice, "The devil is inside 
my body/' 

Isez waited to hear more, but nut another 
word followed. He remained standing for 
some time, but nothing was said by the 
patient, who did not even raise his eyes 
again j or look at the surgeon. As w T ell as 
Isez could judge, three-quarters of an hour 
passed without a single remark on either 

A table stood beside the invalid. On it 
lay a heap of gloves* He took up a 
white silk glove, and slowly put it on his 
left hand ; then he pat otic on his right 
hand. Over these he put a pair of satin 
ones ; next a pair of kid ones. By this 
time his hands looked enormous. The 
fourth pair were of white velvet \ the fifth 
pair of fine wool ; the sixth pair of ermine. 
The hands appeared now as those of a 
giant. Isez watched these doings with in- 
terest which deepened into alarm. As soon 
as the six pairs of gloves were on, the 
invalid began to take them off again, with 
much deliberation folding them neatly to- 
gether in pairs. At length reappeared his 
waxen, unwholesome-looking hands, 

Isez was furtively glancing round the 
room. In one corner stood a sword in a 
white scabbard ; in another a musket with 
the stock painted white ; two pistols of 
white wood mounted in 
silver lay on a side tabic. 
Isez was unarmed, and 
did not like what he 
saw ; he found himself 
trembling, and dreaded 
lest he should fall. Al- 
though he had not been 
invited to do so, he 
seated himself, 

A silence ensued, last- 
ing a quarter of an hour. 
At the end of that time 
the phantom pulled a 
bell ■ cord which hung 
near his chair. The two 
white lackeys entered. 

"Bring bandages," 
said the wooden voice to 

The men went out, 
and returned with 
several strips of linen. 
4i Bleed me/* said the 
" take five pounds of blood/' 



by Google 

Isez started buck, astonished sit the quan- 




tity. "But, monsieur,' 1 he cried, " what 
physician has ordered you to be let such 
an enormous quantity of blood ? ' 


The surgeon did not know what to do. 
He dared not disobey, with those lackeys 
and those firearms all around him ; yet he 
could not follow out instructions which 
would kill the patient. He thought that 
to bleed from the foot would be less danger- 
ous than from the arm. 

" Warm water, if you please/' he said to 
the lackeys ; one of them brought it in a 
white china basin* The other then knelt 
and took off the phantom's fine white-thread 
stockings ; then a second pair ; and so on, 
until six pairs had been drawn off, as well 
as a pair of white fur slippers lined with 
white satin, Then the surgeon beheld a 
beautiful leg and foot, as white and delicate 
as those of a woman. 

He began to bleed ; very shortly the 
patient appeared unwell, and likely to 

ji Take off his mask," said Isez, "and 
give him air," 

The lackeys interposed, and prevented 
Isez from touching their master. He was 
laid on the floor ; the surgeon bound up 
the foot. Presently the invalid began to 

"Let them warm the bed," he whis- 

This was quickly done with a white 
metal warming- 
pan, and the sick 
man assisted to 

Elace himself in the 
ed. Isez felt his 
pulse and perceived 
that all was well 
again, and the ser- 
vants left the room. 
The surgeon went 
to the fireplace and 
wiped his lancet on 
some of the linen 
strips, wondering 
what could be the 
explanation of this 
strange adventure, 
when he suddenly 
heard steps behind 
him, and glancing 
into the mirror over 
t h e mantelpiece, 
beheld the patient 
fling himself from 
the bud, and, with 

one bound, place himself beside the terri- 
fied surgeon, who almost dropped with 
horror and astonishment. 

On the marble chimney piece lay five 
crowns. The phantom figure took tliem in 
its waxen fingers and held them out to Isez, 
11 Are you satisfied with the fee ? " 
'* Yes, yes, monsieur/' replied Isez, 
trembling, li quite satisfied/ 1 
u Then go ! " 

Isez did not require to be told twice. He 
took to his heels, and ran into the outer 
apartment, There the lackeys awaited 

He gazed from one to the other, 
" Is this some foolish pleasantry, some 
bad jest ? " he asked, growing angry now 
that he found no bodily harm was intended 
him. " What does this mean ? ,? 

n Monsieur/' answered one of the men, 
u of what have you to complain ? " 

u Have you not been well paid ? ,T - asked 
the other ; "have you been injured ? '' 
Isez found that he had nothing really to 
complain of ; he 
shrugged his shoul- 

The lackeys took 
each a flambeau and 
led him with all due 
ceremony through 
the narrow ante- 
chamber, down the 


<i by Google 


Original from 



stairs, by the hall and the courtyard to the 
little door into the Rue du Pot-de-fer, 
where his chair awaited him. 

Very thankful he was to leave the strange, 
phantasmal house, and to arrive safely at 
his own abode. He could not understand 
the meaning of his adventure ; whether 
some ghastly secret was imprisoned in that 
white chamber, or whether the whole affair 
had been a practical joke. At all events, 
the five crowns in his pocket were real 
enough. He resolved not to speak to any- 
one of what had happened. A doctor is 
privileged like a priest in confession ; he 
would keep his own counsel. So he went 
to his bed, and had fantastic dreams. 

In the morning, before he was up, 
Manette was called down to speak with a 
young gentleman, who inquired how M. 
Isez found himself, after his blood-letting of 
a white man. 

Manette knew nothing about the matter. 
" But I will inquire of Monsieur ; " for her 
curiosity was aroused on her own account. 

41 Madame need not trouble herself, " said 
the young man ; " it is of no consequence.'' 
And bowing politely, he disappeared down 
the Rue de TAubepine. 

Manette returned to her kitchen, pon- 
dered a good deal, and while her master 
took his coffee, told him of the young gen- 
tleman's visit. Isez perceived that his 
adventure was known. His tongue was 
untied, and he talked of it wherever he 
went. It became the theme of Paris con- 
versation during a few days, and came to 
the ears of the King, who was as much per- 
plexed and amused as other people. The 
Cardinal de Fleury sent for Isez, and made 
him tell the whole story with his own lips. 

Mile. Aisse,* writing to Madame Calan- 
drini soon after the adventure, says : — 

"There have been a thousand conjectures, 
but none seem probable ; for myself, I be- 
lieve that it was a practical joke of some 
young men, who amused themselves by 
frightening the surgeon." 

It was quite true that the surgeon had 
been frightened. Probably those persons who 
laughed at his fears would have been still 
more alarmed had they been in his place. 
A day or two after the adventure Isez found 
time to walk along the Rue du Pot-de-fer ; 
he found that the door by which he had 
entered the mysterious house had disap- 

* The story, up to this point, may be read in the 
Sixth Letter of Mile. Atsse, in the Edition arranged 
by Eugene Asse, and published by MM. Charpen- 
tier et Cie. t Paris, 1873. 

by L^OOgle 

peared. The blank wall was there, blanker 
than ever. This was strange ; and Isez 
was unable even to find any traces in the 
wall to indicate where the door had been. 
Moreover, Manette, who knew every street 
in Paris, and whose eyes, though aged, were 
remarkably keen, declared that there never 
had been before, and never was afterwards, 
any door whatever in that blank wall. 

The fashionable surgeon might almost 
have forgotten his adventure in the Rue du 
Pot-de-fer had it not been kept in his 
mind by other singular persons and strange 

Part II. — The Horseman in Black. 

A summons came from the Due de Gesvres, 
and Isez had no choice but to obey it imme- 
diately. This famous invalid was perpe- 
tually in need of a doctor, and as his ail- 
ments were incurable, he was a valuable 

When taking leave of the groom of the 
chambers, after seeing the sick man, he 
ventured to remind him of the fact that the 
Due owed him a large sum of money. 

" You are right, monsieur," was the reply, 
" and M. le Due has instructed me to pay 
you fifty louis on account." 

Isez would have preferred the whole 
amount due to him, but thought it as well 
to take what was offered. He placed the 
money, in notes and gold, within the purse 
hanging under the skirt of his coat, and 
then started through the dark night on his 
homeward journey. 

Soon after leaving the Chateau of St. 
Ouen, the road passed through a small but 
thick wood. Isez could hardly see the track, 
and held his bridle very slackly, trusting to 
the eyes and the sagacity of his horse to 
find the way in safety. Isez was feeling 
comfortable after a very good supper and 
very acceptable payment ; he was thinking 
over the white invalid of the Rue du Pot- 
de-fer, when suddenly a man clothed in 
black, and mounted on a black horse, sprang 
from among the trees and seized the bridle 
out of the surgeon's hand. 1 

" Your money ! " said the highwayman. 

"No, no," gasped Isez, terrified and 

" Your money ! 1? repeated the robber, 
holding a pistol to the surgeon's head. 

His teeth chattering too much to allow 
him to expostulate, and unarmed as he was, 
Isez, never very valorous, gave up his 
purse containing the fifty louis. 

The highwayman then pulled out Isez' 

vf 1 y 1 r 1 d 1 1 ru 1 1 f 




watch, to which was attached a gold seal, 
and transferred them to his own pocket. 
Next, he bade the unfortunate man dis- 
mount, and grasped the bridle of the 
surgeon's horse, 

" You can walk home- Good-night. 1 ' 

And away rode the robber, humming an 
air from the ballet called ll Lea Elements/* 
while poor Isez stood on the path, deprived 
of his money, his watch and seal, and his 
trusty steed What could he do in the 
middle of a dark night, and a league from 
the outskirts of Paris ? There was nothing 
for it but to go on fbot T and, very sadly and 
wearily, he began to walk. He was too 
much distressed to be able to think clearly, 
and he hardly noticed how he was going. 
But soon he emerged from the little wood, 
atid found himself on an open road. 

A short distance brought him to a house 
— a good, though not grand house — with 
an iron gate in the middle of its front. 

u I will ask whose house it is," said the 




surgeon, "and beg permission to 
rest awhile and recruit myself." 

When he knocked at the gate, 
an old man-servant responded to 
the summons, 

u My good friend," groaned 
Isez, " I have been robbed by a 
highwayman. Will your master 
allow me to come in and rest 
awhile ? ,f 

" We cannot admit strangers," 
answered the man ; "it is late," 

Isez groaned again. " What is 
the name of your master, my 
friend ? " 

"He is M. l e Colonel Hdnon- 

41 Ah, is it so ! Then he knows 
me well. We were good friends 
long ago. Tell him that Jean 
Francois Isez craves shelter for 
the night." 

The janitor retired, and pre* 
sently appeared the Colonel, a 
brave and good man, for whom 
Isez had the highest respect and 
the sincerest affection. At once 
the surgeon was led in, and 
brought to a pleasant room, 
where supper was laid. 

"I give you welcome," said 

the Colonel, courteously; **pray 

be seated, and partake of supper. 

We will wait no longer for my 

son, who is late this evening." 

Isez thanked his host, but 

declined to eat, only accepting a glass of 

claret. He told his adventure, and the 

unfortunate lo?s of his money and purse* 

" My purse and my house are at your 
disposal, my good friend," said Henon- 
Durant ; " remain here this night, and 
to-morrow accept such a sum as may serve 
your necessities. You can repay it at your 

Isez thanked the Colonel with gratitude; 
and had begun to inquire as to the family 
of his friend, when a young man entered 
whom he at once recognised as the high- 
wayman who had robbed him. 

11 My son, Eugene/* said Colonel Henon- 
Durant, presenting the youth to Isez. 

The latter was too much astonished to 
utter a word, except to plead fatigue and to 
ask to be shown to his room. The Colonel 
attended him to the door of a bedchamber, 
and there left him. 

Alone, he felt utterly bewildered, Was 
he in the house of a cut-throat ? Was the 
Original from 



father as bad as the son ? Was the brave, 
generous old soldier an accomplice with a 
highwayman ? or was Isez deceived by an 
accidental likeness between the robber and 
Eugene Durant ? His first thought was to 
rush away from 
this dangerous 
house. But every 
door was by this 
time barred, and 
he dared not at- 
tempt it, 

The surgeon 
gasped for air. He 
opened the case- 
ment and let the 
cool breeze blow 
on his forehead. 
While standing by 
the window he 
heard, as he 
thought, the whin- 
nying of his own 
horse. He re- 
sponded by a 
whist le which he 
often employed to 
cheer the faithful 
animal , A further 
whinny made it 

certain to Isez' mind that his horse was in 
the stable of Colonel Durant's house, and 
that there was no room for doubt of the 
identity of Eugene Durant and the black 

But Isez could not bring himself to believe 
that his respected old friend was to blame 
in the matter. Goodness is not always 
hereditary. Troubled and alarmed, the sur- 
geon could not Me down, but sat through 
the night in an easy -chair, and as soon as 
daylight appeared, quietly lett his room and 
sought that which on the previous evening 
the Colonel had pointed out as his own. 

When Isez opened the door he saw a 
plainly furnished apartment, and on the 
curtainless bed the figure of the fine old 
officer, sleeping calmly and restful ly. This 
sight confirmed Isez in his opinion that 
Colonel Durant knew nothing of his soiVs 
nightly robberies, 

*' Durant, my dear old friend/' said Isez, 
in a low voice* u will vou listen to me for a 
little while ? " 

In a moment Durant was wide awake. 
He sat up, and saw by Isez T countenance 
that something was wrong. 

"Durant, I have a sad and terrible thing 
to say to you ; can you bear to hear it ? " 

11 Speak plainly, what is it ? M 

41 Dear friend, it was your son who robbed 
me last night/' 

"Great heaven ! " muttered the Colonel ; 
" impossible ! M 

by Google 


" It is better,' 1 said Isez, speaking rapidly, 
''that you should learn it from me than 
from the law, which would be less merciful 
than I am. Sooner or later he must fall 
into the hands of justice* That your son 
should take up this abominable" trade is 
almost incredible " 

"Impossible!" sighed the poor father 
again, and fell back on his pillow in- 

Isez fanned him, and sprinkled his face 
with water, and presently saw him recovered 
from the swoon. 

When his strength returned, Durant 
sprang from the bed, hurried on some 
clothing, and rushed towards the door, 
crying, (l The coward, the thief ! My son a 
robber I My son a highwayman ! My son 
a felon ! I thank God that his mother is 
dead, and that he has no sister, I will not 
have such a son. He shall die. Let me 
pass, Isez, let me pass ! I will kill him ! " 

And, thrusting aside the surgeon, who 
tried to restrain him, Durant rushed from 
the room, and up the stairs into the apart- 
ment where the young man lay sleeping, or 
pretending to sleep. 

On the table near the window lay Isez 1 
watch, and his seal bearing his monogram, 




The father paused to examine them. 
There was no doubt of the infamy of the 
handsome young fellow, who now was 
standing in the middle of the floor, clothed 
in the black garments which he had worn 
the previous night. 

11 Wretch ! Scoundrel ! M cried the 
Colonel ; "is it for this that I have been 
the most loving of fathers ? How long 
have you pursued the trade of robber ? But 
you shall pursue it no longer ! " 

Eugfene Durant saw that he had lost the 
game. He pushed past his father, but at the 
door was met by Isez, who barred his way, 
At the same moment. Colonel Durant saw 
that two pistols lay beside the watch and seal. 
He lifted one of them ; there was a flash : and 
his son fell bleeding into the arms of Isez, 

A second time he tried to make himself 
heard, but in vain. Isez leaned over him 
and listened ; he caught only the words, 
11 Rue du Pot-de-fer." 

And then, without another sound or sign, 
with only one great gasp, the youth died. 

Durant was as one stunned. He was led 
away by his servants, while Isez disposed 
decently on the bed the corpse of the 
wretched young man. He had hardly 
finished this task when Durant came into 
the room, dressed in his uniform and wear- 
ing his orders, his bearing erect, his gait 
steady, and his eye firm and clear. 

"Our horses are ready," said he to Isez, 
yi your horse and mine, You return home, 
I go to the authorities to give myself up 
for murder," 

Not even this pitiable sight — his son 
murdered and weltering in his blood — could 
assuage Durant's anger. He poured cm! 
fierce words, and filled the house with his 
cries of rage and reproach. It was only 
when Isez, staunching the wound, removed 
one after another the blood-stained rags, 
which the silent servants brought to him, 
and when that handsome young face grew 
whiteT and calmer, when the eyes took a 
fixed glassy stare and the lips trying to 
speak could but whisper ; it was only when 
death shadowed the face and figure of his 
child, that Colonel Durant ceased to utter 
reproaches, and bowed his head in sorrow. 

" Father," murmured the pallid lips ; 
"forgive me, if you can/ 1 

Durant made no reply. 

The dying man spoke again, but no one 
could hear what he said 


by Google 

What could Isez reply ? They rode away 
■together, and as soon as they entered Paris 
the Colonel went off at a trot, while Isez 
rode on quietly to his home. He found 
Manette much alarmed by his absence dur- 
ing the night, 

u Was the Duke very bad, dying ? Or 
did you fall in with highwaymen ? ' This 
she asked with a smile. Isez made no 
actual answer, but asked for his coffee. As 
usual, the old woman was a long time pre- 
paring it, and when Isez found fault with 
her she echoed his complaints, and endorsed 
his threats. But at length she brought the 
Original from 




coffee, so well made that he forgave her all 
delays, and while he drank she talked. 

" I have made up my old quarrel with the 
concierge, monsieur. She is a good woman, 
and has a brother who lives in the Rue du 
Pot-de-fer. As soon as she mentioned her 
brother I made it up with her." 

44 But why ? " said Isez ; t4 do you want 
to marry him ? " 

44 Ah, monsieur must have his joke," 
laughed Manette ; u no, but I could not 
rest until I found out about the house where 
monsieur went that evening in April. The 
brother says that the door by which monsieur 
entered was never there but the one night. 
A bit of the wall was knocked down, and 
a door set up ; and after monsieur had been 
and gone the door was taken away, and the 
wall rebuilt with the old bricks, so that no 
one could see that any tricks had been 
played with it." 

44 Ah, my good Manette, but why all that 
mystery ? And is there no front to the 
house ? " 

44 Of the reason for the mystery I know 
nothing ; but the brother says that the front 
of the house is No. 7, Rue du Pelerin." 

44 Perhaps," returned Isez, indifferently ; 
but he went out immediately and took his 
way to the Rue du Pelerin. He felt per- 
suaded that when Eugene Durant spoke 
with his dying breath those words, 44 Rue 
du Pot-de-fer," he referred to the house 
where Isez had found the white invalid. 
There must be some connection between 
that strange being and the young man who 
had so disgraced himself, and had come to so 
tragic an end at the hand of his own father. 

No. 7, Rue du Pelerin was an ordinary- 
looking house, standing flush with other 
middle-class houses, and having nothing 
remarkable about it. The jalousies of the 
windows were closed, and the whole place 
appeared uninhabited. A stout, middle- 
aged woman appeared to be the concierge. 
She was unwilling to admit Isez ; and it 
was only after long parleying and many 
assurances that he had been there before 
as surgeon to an invalid, that she allowed 
him to enter. As soon as he had permission 
to do so, he ascended the stairs, and on the 
first floor found the doors all locked and 
barred. He knocked several times, but no 
reply came. He was about to ascend 
another flight and make further efforts, 
when a man came running down the stairs, 
and was recognised by Isez as one of the 
lackeys whom he had seen on the night of 
his adventure. 

44 Monsieur," said Isez, addressing the man, 
who was now in ordinary dress, 44 1 have 
come to inquire after the health of the 
gentleman in white. It is about time that 
he was again let blood." 

44 He has given no orders on the subject," 
was the man's reply. 

44 1 have also a message for him," said 
Isez ; 44 1 spent last night at the house of 
Colonel Henon-Durant." 

The countenance of the man showed 
surprise and interest. 44 Come with me." 
They went up the stairs and entered the 
ante-chamber, where now the white furni- 
ture was soiled and shabby. 

44 Be seated, M. Isez," said the lackey, 
44 and tell me what you have to say." 

Isez then told the story of what had 
happened on the previous evening, but 
without naming the name of the black 
horseman. As he spoke he saw that the 
man's interest was aroused and increased. 
At the point of the robbery a cunning smile 
played over the face of the servant, but at 
the account of the death of the young 
Eugene Durant the man held his breath and 
listened with the most eager excitement. 

44 What — what was the name ? " 

44 Eugene Henon-Durant, son of Colonel 

by Google 

44 It is he ! " exclaimed the man. 44 Dead, 
dead ! " 

44 Your master 1 " said Isez. 

44 My n^ster, and dead — all over — the 
strange masquerade, the rollicking life, the 
escapades on the roads, the purses of gold, 
the splendid furniture, the practical jokes, 
the magnificent suppers — and he is dead, 
and all is over ! Well, better that than a 
madhouse, to which it must have come at 
last ! " 

44 Was he then insane ? " asked Isez. 

44 At times. Oh, his life was a strange 
one. Perhaps for a week living quietly 
with his father ; then some night he would 
take to the road, either with us or alone, 
and he would ride in here in the early 
morning with money and valuables, and he 
would send us out to bring in all that was 
expensive and delicious, and we would feast 
and gamble and live the wildest life while 
the money lasted, after which would begin 
again the round of Colonel Durant's quiet 
home, and the road once more. And he is 
dead, and what shall we do ? " 

44 On that evening in April," said Isez, 
%4 when I was last here, was the young 
gentleman in his right mind ? " 

44 Sir, drink and play made him often 

Original from 



insane. He had once a wild fancy to fill 
this house with everything white ; and 
when that was done, he found himself ill 
at ease, and *ent me with a note to summon 
you to bleed him. After that evening 
funds got low. Our whiteness was quickly 
smirched. He and I robbed many a tra- 
veller > and many a mail. My fellow-lackey 
generally kept house here with the com* 
derge guarding the front door, and a 
porter guarding the garden entrance. But 
if Eugene is dead t then all is oven We 
must take care of ourselves. Sir t we 
must go, lest the officers of justice find 


With those words the man passed into 
the second room. There sat the other 
lackey, practising some trick by which to 
cheat at cards. 

11 Eugfene is dead 
selves ! Tt 

The two men 
went into the 
bedroom — for- 
merly that of the 
unhappy Eugene. 
T hey snatched 
up the firearms 
which stood in 
the corners, and 
opening what 
looked like the 
door of a cup- 
board, stepped 

let us save our- 

out on a lauding of the main staircase. 
They ran down, and Isez saw them no 
more. Whether they continued to act as 
highwaymen, he never knew, but he 
thought that they were hardly likely to 
repent and amend. 

The surgeon gazed with a sort of sad 
wonder on the soiled white furniture, on a 
heap of dirty white gloves, and another of 
dirty white stockings. Drink and play and 
insanity explained the mystery of the Rue 
du Pot-de-fer, as they explain many another 
mystery. Shaking his head as he went, 
Isez left the ghastly apartments, and by the 
main staircase arrived at the hall door. It 
stood ajar, as it had been left by the lackeys. 
Isez closed it, and walked away. 

Mile. Aiss^, in writing* of the murder of 
Eugene Henon-Durant by his father, says 
that the Colonel " went immediately to ask 
for pardon ; everyone was of opinion that 
it should be granted. A good 
man finding his son to be a high- 
way man is overwhelmed with such 
grief that hi* brain may well give 
way under it," 

But Jean Francis Isez never 

forgot the invalid in white, and 

the highwayman in black — one 

^and the same 

miserable young 


* Letter ix. 

by Google 

Original from 

/// Leadeuhail Market. 

By Arthur Morrison. 

a changed place since fifteen 
years ago, Braacl arcade and 
plate-glass fronts stand where 
^ood and tumbled those sin- 
gular shops hi which no man 
could tell exactly where the main structure 
of the building left off and the hutches 
boxes, boards, benches, and stock 
began ; where the ways were de- 
vious and men's elbows brushed as 
near cither side as they may have 
done any time since the market 
was founded by good Sir Richard 
Whittington, in the year of our 
Lord 1408. Other things have 
changed beside the shops ; by 
statute of 1533 no beef might here 
be sold for more than a halfpenny a 
pound, nor mutton for more than a 
halfpenny half- farthing, Nowadays 
this good old law is defied shame- 

But the demolition of 18S0 left 
us something. It did not sweep 
away everything of hutches, boxes, 
boards, baskets, and Miiell ; thanks 
be to the Corporation for that they 
left us Ship Tavern Passage. 

Dear old Ship Tavern Passage ! 
Cumbered with cages, boxes r and 
baskets, littered with straw, sand, 
and sawdust ; filled with barks and 
yelps, crows and clucks, and the 
smell of mice and rabbits ! What 
living thing, short of a hippopota- 
mus, have I not bought there in 
one of those poky little shops, the 
door to which is a hole, framed 
round with boxes full of living .^% 
things, and guarded by tied dogs 
perpetually attempting" to get at 
each other across the opening. In 
the days when the attic was devoted 
to surreptitious guinea-pigs, when 
white rats escaped from the school 
desk, and when grown sisters* dislike 
of mice seemed insane, then was 
Tavern Passage a dream of delight. 

What a delightful door is one such as 

Digitized by Google 

these to a boy ! Here is a box full of 
pigeons — puffy pouters, necklets and almost 
headless. On top of this another box full 
of rabbits — mild-eyed nib biers with tender 
pink noses, with ears at lop, half- lop, cock* 
and the rest. On this, again, there are 
guinea-pigs ; and, still higher, a mighty 
crowing and indignant cock, in a basket. 



What differing emotions do the inscriptions 
on many boards convey to different minds! 
M Small reptiles on hand " is an inspiriting 

Original from. ■ 



*A WlCttBI? CACiE, 

legend to the schoolboy who keeps green 
lizards and time snakes: hut his sister, his 
mother* or his aunt — well, she shudders, 
and instinctively rubs the palm of her hand 
on her muff. She turns with relief to the 
milder announcement, "Gentles always in 
stock, 1 * and, sorely misled by the name, 
wonders why Johnny, instead of nasty 
lizards, can't keep a dear little, pretty T tame 
gentle, with soft fur, and trustful brown 
eyes ; afterwards being much edified to 
find that she has recommended the addi- 
tion of-maggots to the juvenile vivarium. 

Nobody knows how well animals of 
different species may agree together till 
visiting Leaden hall Market. Here you 
shall often sec hung up in one of those 
wicker cages, of shape like a haystack, a con- 
geries of cocks and hens, ducks, guinea-pigs, 
and puppies that shall astonish you by its 
amiability. They do not fight, being 
bound together by a bond of common in- 
terest — the desire to get out, They cannot 
tight, if they want lo, being packed much 
too tightlv : wherein we see how bodily 
tribulation and discomfort may bring about 
moral regeneration and peaceful manners. 
Indeed, we have here, in these cages and 
boxes, a number of small nations or states ; 
for, no matter how amicably the inhabitants 

of each may exist together, beaks 
and claws are ever ready to reach 
out whenever possible for attack 
between the bars of cages adjoining* 
All the stock isn't kept in 
crowds, however. It doesn't do. 
Here is an old tom-cat, for in- 
stance, who would scarcely be a 
safe companion for half a dozen 
doves, or white mice ; a handsome, 
wicked -looking old chap who won't 
allow any liberties. And here is 
another, just as wicked -looking, 
and not at all handsome. He has 
begun to despair of anybody ever 
buying him, and is crusty in con- 
sequence of being a drug in the market. It 
is a noticeable thing that every animal here, 
always excepting the cats, shows a most 
intelligent and natural anxiety as to who 
is to become its owner. They all know 
that they are here for sate, quite as well 
as the shopkeeper himself; and every 
face is anxiously turned toward each new 
comer, while a rapid estimate is taken of 
his appearance, dress, manners, disposition, 
the probable character of his house, and 
the quantity of table-scraps therein avail* 
able. All this, as I have said, with the 


by t^ 



Original from 



exception of the cats. A cat has too high a 
sense of his own dignity and worth to betray 
any such degrading interest in human 
beings. Therefore he stares calmly and 

fKlacidly at nothing, giving an occasional 
ick to a paw, and receiving whatever en- 
dearments maybe offered from outside with 
the lofty inattention of a east ornament. 
He does thi^ with an idea of enhancing 
his own value j and of inflaming the mind 
of the passer-by with un uncontrollable 
desire to become connected with so exclusive 
a cat ; quite like the cook on show at a 
registry office, who lifts her nose and stares 
straight ahead, to impress the newly arrived 
lady with the belief that she isn't at all 
anxious for an engagement, and could 
scarcely, in any case, condescend so far as 
to have anything to do with her. At the 
same time, like the cook t the cat is the 
sharpest listen er t and the most observant 
creature in all this shop, in his own sly way. 
Watch the casual 
air with which he 
turns his head as a 
stranger passes the 
shop— to look, uf 
course, at some- 
thing else alto- 
gether, upon which 
he finally allows 
his gaze to rest. 
Note, too, as he 
gazes on this im- 
material some- 
thing, how his ears 
lift and open to 
their widest. The 
stranger has come 
about a dog. The 
ears resume their 
usual aspect, and 
the gaze returns to 
the same far-away 
nothing as before. 

But this unhand- 
some ruffian has 
waited solong h and 
has been disap- 
pointed so often, 
that he shows signs 
of losing the 
placidity proper to 
his nature. Being 
an unusually good 
mouser, he has a 

certain contempt for such cats as have 
nothing to recommend them but their 
appearance ; and the natural savagery of 


unrecognised genius is aggravated by the 
sight of white rats and mice across the 
shop, where he can't reach them and prove 
his capabilities. So he makes vicious snaps 
and dabs at boys who poke their fingers 
between the bars, and will probably swear 
horribly at the next lady customer who 
says she doesn't want that horrid -looking 

This is not a place where any animal 
fond of a quiet life would come of its own 
accord. Here is a most respectable owl, 
whose ideas of the order of things are 
seriously outraged by its surroundings. A 
quiet wing stretch at night is out of the 
question, because of the cage; and any 
attempt at going to sleep during the day in 
that whirl of yells, crows, barks, and light 
is — well, there ! But he has been put high 
up in the darkest available corner by a con- 
siderate tradesman, and makes a shift for 
forty winks now and again. He is justly 

indignant at tilings 
in general, and 
meditates upon 
them in solemn 
sulkiness in the in- 
tervals of his little 
naps, As the 
proper centre of 
the universe, he 
contemplates the 
rebellion of its 
conditions against 
his comfort with 
gloomy anger un- 
til he falls asleep. 
Whenever he does 
this a customer is 
sure to arrive, and 
wish to look at 
something hard by 
his corner. The 
dealer extends a 
match to an adja- 
cent gi^-jet, arid, 
with a pop, a great 
flame springs into 
be 1 tig a foot from 
the owl's beak. 
Promptly one eye 
opens, and projects 
upon that gaslight 
a glare of puckered 
indignation. You 
observe , he . never 
opens but one eye — the eye nearer his 
ibject of attention. h Why take unneces- 
uiry troublefl r " a | ^fleets the sage ; and, 




sooth to tell, in that one eye is 
gathered enough of wrath to put 
out any flame produced by any 
but the most im- 
pudent of gas 
companies Ami 
though this flame 
be unaffected, 
still let us learn 
from this fea- 
thered philoso- 
pher, when the 
world get^ out 
of joint, and all 
things tempt us 
to anger— to wink 
the other eye. 

Other birds 
here, besides the 
owl, like a quiet 
life, and don't 
get it. All such 
pigeons as lie 
within boy-reach 
are among these, 
as well as some 
within man* 
reach, It is 
notorious that no 
pigeon can show 
his points, or even 
his breed, pro- 
perly, unless stimulated and prodded there- 
unto with el neks, whittles, stieks,and fingers. 
41 Bill/' says a boy, u look at this'n ; tumbler, 
ain't he ? " and lie does what he can to make 
the victim tumble by means of a long lead 
pencil brought against the legs. 4| No/' 
observes his companion, sagely, '* he's a 
lanlail, only lie won't fan " ; and thereupon 
tries a prod with a stick. This failing to 
produce the desired effect, it seems 
evident that the luckless bird must be a 
pouter, so that another prod becomes 
necessary, to make him pout. Rut he won't 
pout, and, as he won't make the least 
attempt to carry the lead pencil, even when 
thumped with the stick, obviously he 
can't be a carrier. The shopkeeper coming 
out very hurriedly at this stage of tile 
diagnosis, the consultation is promptly 
removed to some distance off, More pre- 
tentious connoisseurs than these contribute 
an occasional poke, with an idea of getting 
the bird to show his height ; and, alto- 
gether, from the retiring pigeon's point of 
view, Leadeuhall Market might be a less 
exciting place. 

But some pigeons are used to excitement, 

THfc HMJHLIC— I Kfjai A J'KjbA».S S* lUlfcl UK YlfcW 

and no boy who whistles along 
through the Market is half 
sharp enough to beat them. 
Look about you, 
young and green 
pigeon - faneier, 
and see, if. per- 
chance, there be 
a bird about here 
which you re- 
member at some 
time to have 
Io% r ed, bought, 
and lost — all, per- 
haps, in a single 
day. If so, he is 
probably one of 
the sort I mean. 
He lives a gay 
and fluttering life, 
staying a day or 
two with every- 
body, but always 
returning to one 
place, lie is what 
a fancier, careless 
of his speech. 
will call a " dead 
homer,'" in spite 
of his being so 
very much alive 
and locomotive 
that human sight, week after week, fails 
to follow his course. He is a man-of- 
t he- world sort of pigeon , this. Knows 
his way about London — ay, and any 



by Kj 



Original from 



amount of the country round it — as well 
as ever did Mr. Sam Welter. He knows 
people too f and their tittle ways ; with 
the number of owners he has had, a very 
slug must become a knowing card. Look 
at the innocent old chap. If you be un- 
skilled in avian physiognomy, what more 
simple and guileless creature could you 
carry home from here, with the certainty 
of keeping him obediently with you for 
ever ? But he who once ha* owned and 
lost him sees within the eye of rectitude 
the wink of absquatulation. The rogue 
recognises his old buyer 
again, but makes no 
sign ; so skilled in 
human nature is he, 
and so contemptuous 
of it f that he allows 
for the offchance of be- 
ing bought again, and 
taken to a place which 
ivill revive old memo- 
ries as well as bring a 
change of air and diet, 
and from which the 
road back is familiar. 
For there in an owner 
to whom this otherwise 
fickle bird is ever true, 
and from whom no- 
thing short of solitary 
confinement can keep 
him, an owner who 
fully reciprocates his 
affection, and receives 
him back after each 
excursion with a de- 
light which springs 
from the corner most 
depths of his trousers 

But the chief article of living merchan- 
dise here is the dog; so much so that 
the customary greeting of the dealers is, 
11 Want to buy a little dawg, sir ? ir regard- 
less of the rest of their stock. You observe 
that they always mention a hi tie dog, 
although dogs of al! sizes, kinds, colours, 
and shapes are here to buy. This may 
possibly be because just now the fashion 
largely runs to little dogs — fox-terriers and 
the like ; but I rather think it is said with 
a view of conveying, by a wily sophism, an 
idea nf the pecuniary smallness of the 
suggested transaction — just as a tradesman 
talks of a * 4 little bill " or a card-sharper of 
a u little game/' Once having engaged the 
victim bv the administration of this fallacy 



— well, it only remains to do business with 
him, the manner of which business it is 
easy to learn by the practical expedient of 
buying a dog. 

Nervous men do not like buying dogs at 
Leadenhall Market. "I'll show you the 
dog to suit you, sir/* says the dealer ; *'just 
step this way/' that way being into the 
shop. But at the door of the shop stands, 
sits, or hangs about on the end of a chain 
a certain bulldog of uninviting aspect. He 
isn't demonstrative— never barks or snaps ; 
he iust hangs his mouth and looks at you. 
It is wonderful lo ob- 
serve the amount of 
shyness acquired by a 
man not naturally bash- 
ful by the mere help 
of this dog's presence ; 
at times it really seems 
a pity that some of it 
cannot be made to last. 
People who have never 
been known to refuse 
an invitation before 
hesitate at that of the 
dealer ; because, even 
suppose Cerberus 
passed, the shrinking 
visitor must, with all 
the nonchalance and 
easy grace possible, 
-- walk the gauntlet be- 
* tween two rows of other 
4 -~ dogs, straining to get 
at each other across the 
avenue, at the further 
end of which stands the 
dealer. After which he 
must be prepared to 
hear that tne dog to 
suit him is being kept 
on the roof of the house, at th^ other 
end of many black and crooked stairs 
also populated, in unexpected places, with 
dogs ; and, possibly, after his disastrous 
chances, moving accidents, and hairbreadth 
'scapes, to find that the dog doesn't suit 
him at all* 

Every living creature here knows that it 
stands for sale, and speculates upon its 
prospective owner ; that has already been 
said. Of course, the dogs show it most, 
and of the dogs the fox-terriers more than 
any. Come up a side alley, where a window 
gives light to a bench carrying a dozen. 
There they sit T ears acock, heads aside, eyes 
and noses directed intently towards the 
door, Y^^irc^Unding within Uyo feet of